Michael and Sara's Drabbles and Short Stories
by leuska
Summary: Shorter stories, one-shots and drabbles, little ideas and thoughts, all connected by the theme of the romance between Michael/Sara. Special Appearance by: almost everybody else from the show. WARNING: Spoilers up to all S4 Eps, the Final Break and beyond.
1. The Wall Trilogy

**Name: The Wall Drabble Trilogy**

**Characters/Parings:** Michael/Sara  
**Spoilers: **S4 speculations  
**Genre:** angst / romance  
**Word Count:** approx.320  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** Michael makes another wall and Sara discovers it.

**The Wall – Part ****1 (Michael's POV)**

The wall starts with a simple polaroid photo of a woman whoonly very few knew. He was robbed of that chance. That's why that photo hangs there in the first place; a reminder of what he could have had if not for _them_.

Names, photos and notes add; all expanding the piece of art with a deadly finality.

The first wall was full of love, despair and hope. The second is of cold-blooded hatred and revenge. Marking the last act of a tragedy no one knows nor understands, this wall is not of life anymore. It's a wall of death.

**The Wall – Part ****2 (Sara's POV)**

She looks at the wall and is shaken to her very core. Never did she see something as brilliant yet eerie at the same time.

Then her eyes catch the very heart of the masterpiece and her bottom lip starts to tremble. The photograph's black ink framing her face is worn-out. She subconsciously raises her hand and traces the fading colour with her index finger as he must have done hundreds of times before.

She wishes she could be happy about such a level of devotion and love. And still, her heart only constricts in pain for him and his grief.

**The Wall – Part ****3 **

She stares at the wall hypnotized, never hearing him enter.

„It's not what you think." He looks dismayed by her discovery.

"What _do_ I think?"

"That I want to kill all these people."

"Don't you?"

"No."

"Why did you make _this_ then?"

"Because I once _wanted to_."

"But not anymore?" She sounds uneasy; fragile; scared. But also hopeful. He lowers his eyes.

"To be completely honest…I sometimes still do. For what they did to you." His eyes rise to meet hers determinedly. "But I _won't_."

"What made you change your mind?"

"_You_. The fact that you deserve so much more. Deserve _better_ than that."

**XXX**


	2. Facing Tomorrow

**Name: **Facing Tomorrow

**Characters/Parings:** Michael/Sara  
**Spoilers: **S4 speculations  
**Genre:** angst / romance  
**Word Count:** approx.100  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** This drabble speculates about one new character trait SWC mentioned about Sara Tancredi in S4. Contains a spoiler. Not a plot spoiler. But **a**** character trait/change spoiler**. :)

**Facing Tomorrow**

He rougly pulls her down just on time to hear the deadly bullet whizz painfully close to her head.

Tires screech and a car stops before them. Door opens and he grasps her arms tightly before he hauls her onto the backseat. They are safe for now.

Two strong hands grab her face forcing her to face him. He is shouting.

"Don't you ever dare to do _that_ again!" His eyes are blazing with anger and horror. "Do you wanna get killed?!"

"Of course not."

But he's already caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes and his heart shatters.

XXX


	3. Familial Obligation

**Name: **Familial Obligation  
**Characters:** Michael/Sara, Lincoln  
**Rating:** PG  
**Genre:** Romance/Fluff  
**Word Count:** 100**  
**

**Familial Obligation**

"Michael will kill you if he sees it." He says skeptically.

"Jeez, thanks for your support Lincoln!" She retorts sarcastically.

"I mean it. He's not gonna like it."

"Well, we'll see about that. What's done is done." She says almost stubbornly, then walks towards the bedroom.

XXX

"I love it." He says when his fingers lazily wander her lower back and then stop to stroke the tiny tattoo upon her skin lovingly.

"I certainly hoped you would." She whispers back playfully and she covers her spreading grin into her pillow.

"It symbolizes _familial obligation_; did you know that?"

"I did."

XXX


	4. Over The Top

**Name: **Over the Top

**Characters/Parings:** Michael/Sara, T-Bag, Lincoln (probably the rest of A-Team somewhere around)  
**Spoilers: **S4 speculations  
**Genre:** angst / romance  
**Word Count:** 109  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** A little drabble about Michael, Sara and T/Bag in one room. Yeah, it GETS a little bit too crowded.

**Over the Top**

She is tired. He knows because he's been up all night too, trying to soothe her nightmares.

"Take a nap."

"I'm fine."

"If_ I_ had Pretty in _my_ bed, I'd also be tired."

Michael sees her face redden causing hot fury to bubble in his chest.

"Shut up." Mutters Lincoln.

T-Bag licks his lips lusciously, making Sara squirm uncomfortably.

"How do you _like_ _it_, sweetheart?"

"It's _Doctor Tancredi_ to you! And _shut up_!" Shouts Michael unexpectedly.

"I was just …"

"SHUT UP! You won't touch; talk; nor look at her or I swear I'll break your neck!" He slams the table and exits without even noticing their shocked expressions.

XXX


	5. Funny Story

**Name: **Funny Story**  
Characters:** Michael/Sara, Gretchen  
**Rating:** PG  
**Genre:** General/Romance  
**Word Count:** 101  
**Summary:** Just a little drabble to honor our beloved Gretchen/Susan/B. :)  
**Warning:** Spoilers for the S4 promos!

**Funny Story**

"It's nice to see you again, Sara."

"I wish I could say the same thing, Gretchen."

"Oh, now now. We are _allies_ so I suggest we forget our past_ disagreements_ and move forward, right?"

"Wrong." hisses Michael coldly before Sara has the time to answer herself.

"'The vengeful boyfriend' card. How sweet! But you've already had a gun pointed into my face Michael, so stop the act. it's getting boring."

She smiles happily when Sara's eyes widen in surprise.

"You haven't told her? What a shame!"

She turns to Sara, winking: "It's a funny story. Remind me to tell you one day."

XXX


	6. Arrogance

**Title:** Arrogance  
**Characters:** Sucre, Sara, Michael  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael, Sucre/Maricruz  
**Genre**: romance, gen, pwp, longer drabble  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 354  
**Summary**: Just a little talk making Sucre learning an important lesson about the woman on Prison Break.  
**Spoilers**: Very mild for season 4.

**Arrogance**

"I should never have asked her to marry me." He laments over his mug of coffee.

Sara sights when she hears the exact same sentence for the umpteenth time. Resigned, she says the first thing that comes to her mind, tossing away the magazine she was pretending to be reading for the past 37 minutes. "You sound almost like Michael."

"She would be safer."

"Now you sound _exactly_ like Michael." He starts to irritate her, reminding her strongly of a certain someone.

"She deserves someone better than me." Continues Sucre as if she hasn't spoken at all.

"You know what Fernando?" She lifts and slams the unread magazine on the table, clearly irritated. "I don't personally know your fiancée, but if I were her, I would be slightly offended at your words."

Sucre casts her a confused look and Sara sees she has his full attention.

"What do you mean?" He asks surprised, sounding almost like a naïve child and Sara can't decide whether she feels like slapping or motherly petting him. She does neither.

"You guys treat us like we had no free will, no choice, no own judgment. It's like you, and _only_ you, had the right to decide what's best for us and what's not. And you know what? It's unbelievably pretentious and arrogant and humiliating at the same time! We are not stupid and we can make our own choices, so let us decide for ourselves just for once, will you?!"

Sucre is too astounded to reply so he only nods, his mouth slightly agape, and Sara can see that this possibility obviously never crossed his mind. She rolls her eyes on him and takes the magazine once again, opening it haphazardly, her posture still a bit fuming.

Michael stands only mere feet away hidden in the shadows of the warehouse, frozen in space since walking back to the table in order to retrieve a forgotten blueprint a few moments ago. He heard the little exchange between Sara and Sucre and he knows he probably shouldn't, yet can't help but feel a warm smile spreading through his face anyway.

XXX


	7. GPS

Another one of my short fics about Michael and Sara.

**Title:** GPS  
**Author: lizparker6 ****  
****Characters:** Sara Tancredi, Michael Scofield  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael  
**Genre**: romance, gen, pwp, longer drabble  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: approx. 500  
**Summary**: Just a little talk between Michael and Sara about a certain privacy issue.  
**Spoilers**: Mild for season 4.

**GPS****  
**

He approaches her when she stands alone at the very bottom of the stairs that lead up to her sanctuary. She looks absent-minded, jerking her head with a frightened start when his hand touches her shoulder carefully.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." she merely shrugs her head in dismissal. "It's ok."

He looks around, watching the warehouse as it buzzes with life. Maybe for the very first time, this actually works in their favor, for they are not being noticed nor watched by anybody at all.

His hand slides down her bicep, his fingers finally curling around her elbow. "Listen, Sara…" he begins, trying to handle the subject he is about the discuss as delicately as possible. "I know you are not one of us…" his eyes skim the big space, resting on each of his fellow travelers for a fragment of a second, then his eyes return to her. She looks expectantly, trustingly. He sighs nervously.

"…and I know that there is a great deal of privacy you've already given up for this, for me, but there is one last thing I would like to ask from you." His eyes are hesitant to meet hers at first, concerned to see denial.Truth to be told, what he is most afraid of is that those soft, warm brown eyes of hers will tell him he has already asked for too much, _took_ too much that there is nothing else left to take. When he finally meets her eyes however, there is a complety different thing shining from under her long eyelashes. There is trust and there is love and there is giving, and - _Oh God_ - there is still so much she has to give and is _willing_ to give and do it so freely and openly, all just for him.

"What?"

He swallows. "I know you don't need to wear one of those GPS ankle bracelets, because you are not a fugitive working off a punishment here like the rest of us, but…" he stops for a moment, "...but could you wear one anyway? For me." He adds. "In case there was an emergency."

He looks directly at her now and sees something soften in her look. She doesn't say a word but merely lifts the hem of her jeans, exposing the skin of her ankle and there it is, a black GPS navigator already securely put in place.

"I've figured you might wanna have me wear one of these." She smiles knowingly, cheekily even, and his chest is all of a sudden too small for his heart.

"You know, you don't have to wear one if you do not want to." He says carefully, giving her a choice he doesn't really want to give.

"I know. But _you _do. And that's reason enough." There is something deeply understanding in her look, an acknowledgement for him and his fears for her safety.  
And once again, Michael Scofield cannot understand how this one precious thing in his life - this thing that keeps him alive and going and hoping every damned day - could click so easily and perfectly into place, and still blossom beautifully under such crude and grave circumstances.

XXX


	8. Tell Me Who I am

This is a gift for **parrotsketch,** whom I promised a birthday fic that I post now, although inexcusably late (so sorry hunny…). Anyway, happy belated birthday sweetie!

Also, incredibly huge thanks to wonderful **alienmom**, who is such a sweetheart and did a marvelous job with betaing this story. Without you mom, it wouldn't be half as good. Oh and mom, that _gift card _was priceless, you are too good to me, doing research only on _my_ account. ;)

Oh, and I simply _love_ those little comments of yours, explaining why you changed this and that – "_planting sounds like tending to a garden_", lol, I really appreciate that.

**Title:** Tell me who I am  
**Characters:** Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Brad Bellick, (Roland, Lincoln, the rest of the Warehouse Team)  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael  
**Genre**: angst, romance, drama

**Rating**: PG-13

**Word Count**: approx. 3000 words  
**Summary**: Sara agrees to take one for the team, but it affects her in more ways than she would think and Brad Bellick is the fortunate one to take the heat.

**Spoilers**: Speculative situation during S4.

Tell me who I am

She feels like a piece of meat. Like some cattle offered for sale. All eyes skim over her; evaluating, assessing, enjoying. She knows most of the guys just try to calculate if she is dressed well enough to play her role in order to get the job done. Then again, there are some eyes that simply _enjoy _the view she gives and she almost shivers in repulsion.

And then, there is one pair of eyes that doesn't look at her at all. The only person whose stare she actually would enjoy shies away, with his eyes strangely impassive and restless at the same time.

Sara knows Michael hates the idea of using her as bait, exploiting all her feminine charm to get a job done. They had a frustrating and rather heated discussion about it earlier. And although she doesn't like the idea very much herself, she doesn't feel like she has much of a choice. It's the most simple and only way to get what they need. So she volunteers, being the only woman on the team, to do the distasteful job.

There were actually a few dresses she could pick from. Agent Self offered her a choice she was more than happy to accept. Several had low cut backs, that would leave her back exposed and even though Sara was willing to play her part, she wasn't willing to offer the evidence of her torture for public display, not to her companions. Not to anyone. So she chose the most conservative dress at her disposal, not because she wanted to pretend shyness or modesty, but simply because it was her only choice if she wasn't going to show her scars.

Now she is standing in front a bunch of ex-cons, who dared to evaluate whether her choice of clothes is slutty enough. She hates to confess even to herself how self-conscious their looks make her feel.

"I think you can do better." says Roland at last, his eyes narrowed and shamelessly seizing her up and down. "You aren't going to get closer than 20 feet to a man like him unless you show more of your..._advantages_." At this, he looks directly at the thin material covering her breasts and she thinks she can't feel more objectified. Before she has the opportunity to answer however, Roland continues. "And that back of yours, I don't want to make inappropriate comments or suggestions here,…" his tone stays careless while he pops another M&M into his mouth, "…but I guess you have one hell of a back and trust me, guys _love_ bare backs, so you might wanna lose some of the fabric there too."

She feels her neck and cheeks being flushed with hot blood and sees Michael's gaze instantly shift from studying the railing to Roland's blatant face.

"Maybe you missed the part where she is supposed to play "accidental company" and not a call-girl." Michael hisses, his eyes narrowed, evident of how serious he is.

He is tense and not at all confident about what they are about to do, knowing only too well Sara's discomfort yet stubborn determination to accomplish her task. It's nothing compared to how he is feeling about lowering his already sunken standards to offer her as human bait. He looks up, his eyes intending to finally meet Sara's in an attempt to once again tell her she doesn't need to do this. He misses them entirely when her eyes look shyly away from his. She knows.

Michael studies her face instead. She is pale and uncomfortable, but he also sees the tension that arose at Roland's last remark. It must have triggered a fire of anger inside of her too, because her eyes, now averted to the ground, are shining in anger and humiliation. Just at this awkward moment, one person in the crowd, who doesn't sense the tightness and humming energy hanging in the air, decides to make a clumsy attempt to gain some points and score with the male population of the warehouse.

"Look Michael, we all know you wanna keep your little woman safe, but the guy ain't gonna bite until the Doc, here, shows some real skin." says Bellick jovially, still oblivious to the sparking atmosphere in the room.

Something inside of Sara snaps with an unknown fury and unfamiliar urge to strike back and maim, rising in her chest. The scars on her back catch on fire again, and for a split second, she can, all at once feel the skin of her back rip open with the searing pain from Gretchen's whip.

"And yet, it took just an old pair of jeans and a worn-out shirt for you, Bradley, to hit on me during an NA meeting, trying to impress me with a dinner invitation that would be paid for by a gift card."

She hits her target and _God, does it feel good_. Bellick's expression crumbles like a cheap plaster from the wall. She sees Lincoln's face spread into a grin and Sucre even lets out an involuntary giggle. Her eyes end up on Michael and her stomach drops. He is looking at her, watching her, but his expression is unfamiliar and unsettling. It's a mix of surprise and odd disbelief. She can't stand his expression any longer and looks at Brad once again. It's only then, she feels the pang of shame and sympathy for the man she knows she just humiliated in front of the men he is forced to work with, day after day, possibly for the rest of his life.

However, Sara shakes those feelings off quickly. Her face and pace once again a mask of calm and confidence as she steps forward, making her way to the SUV. She has a role to play and she will do it perfectly even without having her damaged skin for public display.

XXXXX

She is drained. She should feel accomplished, because they have the copy of the next card, but the adrenaline left her body hours ago and she is now only tired and spent. She was listening to words of praise the whole drive back to the warehouse, but she doesn't feel validated. She feels lonely and she misses Michael. She is exhausted, depleted and she just wants to get on her boat, fall asleep and not wake up for at least a week.

When she enters the warehouse, she is met by an odd sight, Roland is sitting at his computer, giving her a thumbs-up, but Michael and Bellick are sitting at the table quietly talking. Bellick's cheeks are a bit flushed and he looks at her sheepishly, giving her a small tentative nod that tells her they are ok. It's this rather generous gesture, however, from Brad Bellick that causes her stomach to drop. A sudden stab of guilt and remorse for her earlier words come all rushing back, flooding her brain and poisoning her heart.

She is too tired and ashamed to attempt doing something about these feelings now. She casts them an acknowledging glance before making her way to the stairs that lead to her sanctuary. She is now lonely and feels like weeping.

She doesn't bother to change, she merely kicks off her shoes and crashes onto the bunk, curling into a small ball and finally allowing the tears to flow freely. After a few short moments however, they stop, she's even too drained for crying. So she wait for the sleep that never comes.

In the distance, she is vaguely aware of the men talking. She can distinctly hear Michael's velvety voice glide over the rest of the crowd like honey on toast. Not long after, she hears soft footsteps on the stairs and a gentle knock on her already half-opened door. He seems to hesitate for a moment, but then enters.

"Hey." Michael says softly into the dark space, quietly enough not to wake her, in case, she was already asleep. Not that he thought she would be.

"Hey." She answers in a choked voice.

"You alright?" he asks, deep concern coating his voice and it's all she can do not to start to weep anew.

"No." she admits in a small voice after a while. He crosses the remaining space and sits down on the edge of her bunk, facing her back. Carefully, almost tentatively, he lays his hand on her head, caressing her hair lightly.

"What happened?" He asks after a moment of silence, continuing to glide his hand over the soft hair covering her neck.

"Everything and nothing." she finally turns towards him, pushing herself up into a sitting position. Her back is resting against the wooden interior of the small cabin. She outstretches her hand towards him in a silent invitation and her hearts leaps in relief when he almost too eagerly follows her lead and sits next to her onto the small bed.

She buries her face into the crook of his neck while his hand snakes around her shoulders in a familiar gesture and continues to draw small, soothing circles over the back of her head and neck. She exhales shakily, relishing in the intimate and rare moment the two are allowed to share alone.

"I missed you." She breathes and feels his hand still over the nape of her neck for the shortest of moments before it continues to caress her hair.

"To say I felt the same would be an understatement." He utters back. "What happened?" He asks again and this time, she knows he is referring to the operation.

"Nothing." She shakes her head quickly in denial, finally realizing his concern for her to be connected to events of the past few hours. "It went rather smoothly. I got to him, we chatted for a while, Roland copied the card and we got out."

"Did he make advances on you in any way?" His voice is neutral, although she knows the question was burning on his tongue.

"Yes," she confesses carefully, "but he didn't dare to step over the boundary of a public place." Again, she can feel his hand still over the nape of her neck.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I am fine." She sighs as she buries her face deeper into his chest, inhaling his scent. "I've survived worse."

For the third time in the past five minutes, his hand stills while caressing her hair. He can feel her smile against his shoulder.

"What?"

"We chatted about which Catholic boarding schools would be best for my children ."

"Catholic boarding schools? I bit of a cliché, don't you think?" he teases lightly and feels her grin spread. "Trust me, with these people, it's the safest topic." He doesn't reply further but she can feel the atmosphere in the small space around them shift significantly.

"I am sorry for using you as a bait." His voice is quiet and she can hear honest regret.

"It's ok. I volunteered. And we got what we wanted and nothing much of ordinary happened." She shrugs in the dark. "Every one of us brings some kind of sacrifice into this."

Sara feels his grip tighten around her and all of a sudden, she doesn't want to discuss today anymore. She raises her head, bringing her lips to his neck.

"Something is upsetting you though." He says quietly, not being fooled by her change of attitude for a second. She feels the frustration inside of her building and lets her head drop, her eyes close, while she still presses her head to his shoulder.

_She can talk to him about this. He will understand, he won't judge. If he would, he wouldn't be here with her now._

"Sometimes…" she starts shakily, "…I have the feeling like I don't know who I am anymore… and I don't recognize myself at all." She can feel his grip tightening on her. "Earlier, when I snapped at Brad, I felt such rage built inside of me..." She almost chokes over her next words. "Michael, I _wanted_ to hurt him. I wanted to humiliate him and I succeeded and it felt good." Her voice is trembling with emotion, but his grip doesn't lessen and that is what's giving her the strength to continue.

"I often find myself so furious, angry and vicious, that when I look into the mirror, I don't recognize the person I see." She finally gives in and let's out a choked sob. "I am frightened by the fact that I am always so angry and I feel like I might loose control over myself and my actions. I'm scared that I changed so much without even noticing. I'm terrified that I don't know who I am anymore." She finishes desperately, her body shivering involuntarily.

She feels him shift in order to bring her closer, to embrace her more tightly, and she can feel his lips planting a series of desperate kisses over the top of her head.

"You are still the same wonderful, compassionate, generous, bright woman I fell in love with in Fox River. You will always be that woman." He whispers in a fierce voice, using all his strength to keep his own composure that starts to crumble under the pressure of her previous words. "You are a person who has lived through hell, who suffered losses, who has all the right to be angry and vengeful, but, you still shy away from it. You snapped at Bellick today because you felt threatened, vulnerable, exposed and you wanted somebody else to feel that way for a change."

She is silent, shell-shocked by the accuracy of his words, but he misinterprets her silence for disagreement and his inability to provide comfort for her makes him feel even more of a failure.

"I'm sorry. I should have thought of another plan, another way…"

"It was not the plan, Michael. It's _me_." Sara interrupts gently. "I changed so much that I don't know who I am anymore, and _that_ scares me." She sounds so lost and desperate and truly scared and he simply has no words that would for sure bring her comfort.

"_I love you_. That much hasn't changed and never will. I wish I could tell you that everything will go back to where it all started when we get this done, but it won't. We all changed in a way, through our actions, or simply through what was done to us. But that doesn't make you a bad person, Sara. It makes you either more vulnerable, or stronger. And you _are_ strong, Sara."

She doesn't say anything but merely shifts in her own spot, urging him closer into the embrace. "_I love you too_." The warm words she whispers into the hollow of his ear echo through his head. "That much hasn't changed for me, either." A bittersweet ache makes his chest tighten. He pulls her closer to him, pressing a kiss to her lips. As it deepens, everything around them starts to dissolve, the hard uncomfortable bunk, the boat, the warehouse, the mission. It's just them. It feels so right and for the shortest of moments, both feel whole, safe and in their own skin, again. They eventually pull apart.

"Can you stay?" She asks a bit desperately in a tone that tells him she already suspects his answer.

"Unfortunately no," he sighs. "I have to go back to look at the information Roland got from the guy's cell phone. Might be useful to get to the next cardholder." She nods in understanding, her disappointment palpable still.

"You can stay and get some rest." He tries, but already sees her shaking her head.

"Just give me five minutes to change into something else." She quips, looking down at her now crumpled dress. He nods with a small smile, then half-heartedly turns his back on her while she changes her clothes.

"Did Bellick really try to ask you out on a date?" Michael finally asks in a kind tone, trying to fill out the somewhat awkward silence.

"Yep." Sara answers at last, a small soft laugh escaping her lips. "The poor guy was so nervous and it was so awkward to turn him down right after he told me about the job opening at Fox River."

"He did?" Michael asks with interest.

"Did, what?" Asks Sara absentmindedly, pushing a sweater over her head.

"Tell you about a job opening at Fox River."

He can hear her smile as she answers. "Yeah. I would never have heard about the job at Fox River if it were not for him."

"I guess buying him flowers is in order, then." Michael says amusedly while waiting.

She must have changed by now for Michael can hear her approaching from behind, finally sneaking her hands around his neck. "Buying him flowers for hitting on me?" She asks playfully, kissing a spot right next to his earlobe and it's all he can do not to turn around and fully kiss her.

"No, not for that. But without him, the two of us probably wouldn't have met." He says softly, turning around to look at her at last, just at time to see her look soften. She doesn't answer but merely caresses his cheek with her fingers.

"Do we really have to go back _there_?" She mentions with her head in the direction of the warehouse's main working space where the rest of their team must be sitting right now.

Michael just sighs, nodding with reluctance, and she slumps her shoulders a little before she rises to her feet, offering her hand to help him stand up from the narrow bunk.

"You know…" she starts before they reach the bottom of the stairs that lead to her boat, "I was wondering about those flowers for Brad, and I think he would rather enjoy a gift card instead." She whispers mischievously and hears Michael chuckle lightly. It fills her insides with warm light.

END


	9. Strong

_This is a dedicated to the wonderful _msgenevieve,_ celebrating a special day, the birthday of this awesome, unique and most talented person. Happy Birthday, Jen! _

**Title:** Strong  
**Characters:** Lincoln Burrows, Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, mentions of Gretchen  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael  
**Genre**: angst, romance  
**Rating**: PG 13

**Word Count**: approx. 1550 words

**Summary**: Lincoln brought a gift for Michael from Vegas, a gift that makes him realize that being fragile doesn't exlude one from being strong.

**Spoilers**: Up till the very last episode of S4.

_Sorry for not being betaed, wasn't enough time to do that, therefore, all mistakes – and I am afraid there are plenty – are mine. _

**Strong**

"Hey Michael!" Lincoln calls after his brother who is walking through the huge warehouse, absentmindedly clutching an empty glass in his hand. Not turning nor acknowledging his brother, Michael is either too lost in his own thoughts or pissed after already being told of his betrayal, which one it is Lincoln's doesn't know.

The Burrows crosses the space and follows his brother into the small kitchen, all too glad for finding it empty. He turns his back to the small window, pressing his back against the counter, watching Michael filling the glass with fresh water without much interest. His brother looks wary, beaten even, this being clearly a bad sign due to the fact he just stepped from Sara's boat after spending there a fair amount of time.

"How is Sara?" Lincoln asks without preamble, knowing his brother's girlfriend probably not reacting too well to the news about Gretchen's survival, not to mention her new investment in their matter.

"Not so good." Michael's reply is quiet, yet coldness is seeping from his voice. He closes the tap without casting a single look at Lincoln and then putts the filled glass on the counter.

"Your indiscrete disclosure about the state of my health didn't help to bear the news about Gretchen at all." Michael's tone even colder, his eyes are blazing with fire, finally boring themselves into Lincoln's.

"Look Michael…"

"It was not your right to tell!" Michael voice raises but his sentence ends in a hiss, the fury leaving his body in powerful waves.

"I just wanted to help." Lincoln says, knowing anybody else would probably away if being faced by such an angry Michael.

"Whom, Lincoln? _Whom_ could you possibly have helped by leaking such news about me to Sara hundreds of miles away while on a mission, coloring it by your assumptions and ancient history stories about our family background?"

"She can help Michael." Reasons Lincoln quietly, knowing his brother being only desperate for trying to protect the people he loves. "Look…" he puts a hand on Michael arm in a soothing gesture. "You can't protect her forever. Sooner or later, she would have found out for herself."

"_You_ had no right, Linc. It should have been me." His tone still angry, he shakes Lincolns hand off.

"Right. Because you were going to tell her, right? You had _days_ to tell her Michael but you didn't and she noticed something was off herself and asked me in Vegas, and she was so desperate to get some information I didn't have the heart to lie to her face about you."

"She has more than enough things to worry about right now."

"I know." replies Lincoln quietly with a heavy sigh. "Trust me, _I know_. And I am sorry you are angry at me right now for telling her, but I think she deserved to know. She may be upset now but she would be far more if you started bleeding or passed out somewhere right in the middle of an operation." He says and watches his brother's posture slowly crumpling.

"There is so much for her to bear right now…" Michael almost gasps for air, "I didn't want to add to that burden just yet…" Michael utters.

"I know. But we both know she is stronger than that." says Lincoln kindly and squeezes Michael's upper arm when he sees a shadow steal over his brother's face.

"Anyway…" Lincoln interrupts. "I have something for you." He says and gives a small smile as he reaches into the pocket of his trousers, extracting a Polaroid photo. Michael's stomach clenches just at the sight of the familiar camera format, but when his brother handles him the photo, he feels his body relaxing, while his chest tightens with emotion.

The photo is of Sara in a black, beautiful, sexi dress he has never seen her wearing before. She is smiling broadly at something a person – probably Sucre – is saying to her, oblivious to the

picture being taken.

"I borrowed a camera from a guy in Vegas and took the picture. She looked pretty so I though you might like it." Lincoln's voice is a bit raspy and he is shifting in his spot uncomfortably, observing as his brother intensely gazes at the photo.

"I know you still carry that old one I gave you while you were in Sona …" Michael's eyes snap up from the photo darting directly into Lincoln, a mistrustful as well as a caught-in-the-act expression on his face. Lincoln draws a deep breath. "…and I think it's on time to throw that old one away exchanging it for new one. A more 'up-to-date' one." he finishes quietly and tries to asses Michael's thoughts while his expression stays impassive. Finally, his face breaks into a broad smile as his eyes wander to the photo again.

"She looks happy." Michael utters quietly, a sad expression touching his eyes for a moment.

"She was talking about you when I took that one." says Lincoln kindly. "She really loves you very much." He adds softly before quickly giving Michael's back a brotherly slap and retreats.

Michael's eyes rise towards the SS Minnow, where now a heavily disturbed and broken Sara tries to get some rest after being forced to absorb the heavy news that came to her in a matter of hours in double-pack.

His eyes wander back to her smiling face on the photo. She looks relaxed - at least under the circumstances - her hair pulled upwards in what looks like an elaborate hairdo, the beautiful dress supporting all her womanly advantages. Light make-up and discreet accessories make her look almost royal. _The queen of beggars and thieves_, he thinks darkly.

Michael puts his hand into his pocket and extracts another Polaroid photo from far another time and another place. He brings the two together, his mind and heart comparing. It's almost unbelievable how much difference there is despite the little time that passed between the two shots.

The first photo declares how very much Sara has been through. The second is the evidence to her incredible, strong – _almost stubborn_ – will no to yield, the will with which Sara always pulls herself up from the worst of blows and heavily but nevertheless moves on.

He never met a person with such rock-solid determination to beat the faith in its own game and he knows it's one of the reasons he loves her this much. But it's also the reason why he can't find sleep at times, feeling like a rock constantly pulling her down. His biggest wish being the very opposite, namely to surface with her, together, is still only in the realms of wishful thinking.

Michael eyes both the photos anew before he makes a quick decision and tosses the old one into the trash.

Time moves on, whether it's in a way they like or not. They are living _now_. Not yesterday, not tomorrow, now. The past is never forgotten, _no_, always hovering near enough to chase one in a moment of weakness, but Michael knows one thing now. Sara always was so much stronger than that. If he has any saying in it, she always will.

He unglues his back from the counter, carefully placing the new photo into his pocket. Taking the glass of water, he makes his way across the warehouse to the boat again.

The lights are off when he enters the small cabin. Putting the glass on the small table, he crouches beside the head of the bunk, bringing his head as closest to hers as he dares. It's pitch black in the small space but he can feel her eyes on him. He brings his hand up to caress her soft hair over the curve of her head and neck, his thumb gliding over her wet cheek in a breeze of a caress.

"Brought you a glass of water." he whispers into the darkness.

"Thanks." The reply is soft, her voice still hoarse from her emotional and physical weariness.

Michael brings his head down, touching his forehead to Sara's. "I'm sorry." He whispers into the darkness. "For everything. For lying to you about the nosebleeds, for being unable to protect you from Gretchen…I am so sorry for so many things Sara…" his voice is starting to break but thank God, he can't finish his sentence for his lips are all of a sudden covered by Sara's in a fierce kiss that effectively silences him.

"Just don't hide things from me again, alright?" says Sara gently when they finally break up, panting slightly.

"Alright." Michael almost chokes at the word, touched by her generosity. He wants to continue, he wants to talk to her further, but she once again shuts him up by entangling him in a series of heady kisses, slowly but persistently pulling him up and into her bed. The tiny voice of reason sets off the alarm in his head, telling him this conversation isn't – or at least shouldn't be – over yet.

"Sara, are you sure this is …"

"_Yes._" The one resolute word reverberating in his ear, God help him but he doesn't need to be told twice. He immerses himself into her, seeking as well as granting comfort that makes them vulnerable and strong at the same time.

XXX

_Your thoughts?_


	10. Protection

**Title:** Protection  
**Characters:** Sara Tancredi, LJ Burrows, Gretchen Morgan, (mentions of Michael Scofield)  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael  
**Genre**: angst, drama, romance  
**Rating**: R (for strong language and some graphic violence)  
**Word Count**: approx. 2350 words  
**Summary**: A question that's been teasing my mind: _How did Sara's rose got to be left behind in their cell?_ Just playing with this idea a little.  
Also, it's my look on Sara's time and relationship with LJ as well as Gretchen during their captivity in S3.  
**Spoilers**: speculations for happenings during S3.

**Protection**

Gretchen thinks about her scruffy malodorous female captive, wondering what on earth could possibly bring a supposedly brilliant man like Michael Scofield fall for such a plain woman.

Of course that Sara has temperament, Gretchen can't deny her that. The black-haired woman can still feel her cheek tingling, the little grazes Sara's nails left there a good reminder of how dangerous this seemingly feeble woman can be. But other than that, there is _nothing_ specialor extraordinary about Sara Tancredi.

She is a doctor, a politician's daughter, and a well educated woman; but otherwise an obviously very stupid person. For she keeps being cheeky although already very well knowing that if there is something that Gretchen absolutely won't tolerate, it's sauciness and disrespect by her captive collateral.

Sara Tancredi surely must be aware of that by now, since every time she attempts to raise as much as a protesting voice against anything Gretchen says or demands, she gets slapped, punched or otherwise physically punished. Even a street dog would have learned by now that Gretchen's patience wears thin and unnecessary provocation brings the perpetrator only pain and problems. And yet, Sara Tancredi keeps speaking up every time Gretchen enters her prisoner's cell. Gretchen doesn't understand the reasons for such obviously stupid behavior. But the again, maybe the girl just isn't as bright as anyone thought.

It's late in the afternoon when Gretchen walks into the dirty, smelly room where the boy and the doctor are held. She crosses the space quickly, wriggling her nose shortly in disgust at Sara's direction, before she abruptly stops right in front of LJ, tied to a chair right at the far end at the window.

"So, kid." She proclaims dramatically and sits down, looking straight into LJ's frightened face. "Spoke to your dad today. He obviously likes to create unnecessary problems. See _this_?" She extracts a little paperback book from her pocket, a small blue bird on its cover. "This," she says, "your father tried to hide from me."

"I don't know what that is." answers the scared boy confusion, shaking his head in denial.

"I know you don't." Gretchen says, nodding in mock understanding. "But only so you know LJ…" she continues in a badly pretended kind voice, her features serene, "…I promised your dad that the next time he pulled a shit like that on me again, I would send him some body part of yours. So let's hope you father doesn't play a fucking hero again, shall we? Because otherwise, there will be…_consequences_."

The terror in the young boys face is almost palpable. Gretchen raises her hand, grazing her fingers over LJ's scared face, stopping at his ear. "But just in case he manages to piss me off again…" she says trying to look contemplative,"…what do you suggest, LJ? What body part shall we present your dad with?"

The boy shivers in fear, which only encourages Gretchen to taunt him cruelly further.

"Your ear?" She suggests, tugging at his earlobe hard, making the boy wince in pain. "Or maybe one of your fingers, huh? How would that work for you?" She continues more angrily and roughly grabs one of LJ's hands bound behind his back, causing him to cry out in pain when the cuffs cut deep into his wrists.

"Why won't you just shut up?" A loud strong voice comes from the other part of the room and Gretchen turns quickly in anger and annoyance of being interrupted in her favorite part. Her expression quickly transforms into pretended niceness and calm once again, spotting the source of the inconvenience. _Here we go again._

"Sara, sweetie, nobody is talking to you, so why don't you return to what you were doing before? Like…lets say, _trying to stay alive_."

Sara merely snorts, a quiet scorning laughter escaping her lips. Gretchen eyes blaze with anger as she crosses the room in two quick strides, hitting Sara hard with a half-closed fist. The prisoner groans in pain and Gretchen feels a great deal of satisfaction. She straightens anew, marveling in the sight of Sara's blood trickling onto the dirty floor.

"You simply never learn, do you Sara?" asks Gretchen, returning to her slow, disgustingly sweet voice again. She crouches in front of Sara, lowering herself to the eye-level of the sitting woman.

"You must either be really stupid…" she says while bringing her carefully nail-polished hand to gently stroke Sara's messy hair, "…or you truly don't care to see Michael again."

Her words must trigger something inside of the woman slumped before her in a chair, because her shoulders jerk a little at the mention of Scofield's first name. Sara's face is still facing the floor, the dark, dirty hair falling over the sides of her face. She can't wipe away the blood that's still trickling down her face, for her fists are bound together behind her back, and Gretchen feels on her high horse again.

"Aah, I see." She continues sweetly with a little chuckle, a predatory smile dancing over her lips. "Not that cheeky when talking about your boyfriend, are we?"

Sara's mind and mouth itch to say something rude in return, but her throbbing jaw stays clenched tight. She raises her head at last, looking into Gretchen's eyes, trying to show all the hate and contempt for her captor through her eyes rather than her hurting mouth. Gretchen's smirk merely grows.

"I looked up Michael, by the way. He's rather a looker." She says and smiles even wider when she sees the anger in Sara's eyes rise, causing them to narrow into thin slits.

"You have no idea who you are messing with." Sara hisses in a deep, unfamiliar voice right into Gretchen face. The dark-haired woman grabs her chin roughly in return, slowly observing the dark bruising and blood stains on Sara's face and cheek with obvious pleasure.

"No honey. _You_ have no idea who you are messing with." With that, she pats Sara's cheek so hard it's more like a slap and with a huge predatory smile leaves the room.

The door closes and Sara sniffs, trying the stop the blood flowing from her nose. Her whole jaw is on fire, her vision blurring with the involuntary tears that sprung to her eyes after Gretchen's fist collided with her jaw.

"Are you alright?" LJ asks quietly, uncertainly.

"Yeah." Sara lies, but knows it would hurt her far more if having to witness Gretchen abusing of LJ any longer without interfering.

"Thank you for your help." LJ utters softly and Sara once again notes the boy being way smarter than most boys his age. She merely nods, flashing him a smile that ends in a grimace as her face contorts in pain.

"You are welcome." She squeezed through her lips painfully, running her tongue across her teeth, relieved to find them all still in place.

"You don't have to do that though." LJ quips.

"Do what?"

"Protect me." The boy answers shyly.

"I am not…" Sara starts but he cuts her off.

"You always do that. When _she_…" he mentions to the door with his head, "...comes, you always draw her attention to yourself."

Sara has no answer for that. It's the truth and she doesn't want to lie to him, so she merely shrugs.

"I am sure Uncle Mike is ok and will help us soon." LJ utters quietly, trying to sound reassuringly, and Sara's chest constricts painfully with longing, an actual smile forming at her lips at the sound of the unfamiliar title for Michael. She remembers the tiny, now surely flattened and crumpled paper rose hidden in her jeans pocket, and a dull, bittersweet ache grasps her heart.

_You have sacrificed everything for me once, now it's time to say 'thank you'._

Had she only known then, she would probably have slapped him hard, right across his handsome face. Not because the outcome of this whole mess, no, he had as little to do with this as any of them. But because there is this heavy burden now sitting heavily in the pit of her stomach, gnawing at her insights; worry for him, his brother and his nephew – _and God yes, even herself_ - chewing at her conscience.

God only knows where Michael is right now, but from the snippets the dark haired woman drops occasionally - like little crumbles leading a path - Sara can put two and two together to know that Michael isn't in a place much better then she and LJ are right now, burdened with a task which when he fails to accomplish will cost them all their lives. She won't lie to herself, she is scared beyond herself. She knows what these people are capable of doing, she has already felt it once before, and she knows as well that death is a very much possible outcome. Yet she has to stay focused and alert, if not for herself, that at least for his nephew's sake. And it's a much harder task she would ever dream of, since the unknowingness of Michael's whereabouts and state of flesh and mind only increase her uncertainty and fright ten-fold.

XXX

A few days later, their situation significantly worsens. Their unsuccessful attempt to escape will cause heads to roll, Sara is sure of that.

The door flies open with a horrible crash into the wall and a livid Gretchen walks in, beginning her speech even before the door slams back behind her with a terrible sound.

"As you two surely noticed, there was a little _disruption. _You two therefore must understand that I have to make some steps to secure that something like that won't happen again."

She crosses the room quickly, grasping LJ by the hair and making him rise from his chair crying out in pain, causing Sara to wince.

"One of you has to serve as an example. Since it was _your_ fucking father who pulled that stupid stunt, it's _you_ who has to pay." Gretchen shrugs her shoulders at LJ. "Sorry kiddo, but someone's gotta go." She finishes ruthlessly, prepared to drag a terrified LJ out of the room.

Sara panics. "Wait, don't! _I_ told them where to find us, _I_ kicked that damned shoe out of the window!" She is begging now, but she doesn't care anymore. "He is just a kid." Sara pleads in despair and Gretchen hesitates in the door, turning to her at last.

"Yes you sneaky little bitch, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about _your_ little act. You are going to pay your price for that one, I assure you!" Gretchen hisses venomously. "But this one -" she turns to LJ, still grasping a handful of the teenager's hair in her hand, "…-and I don't want to hurt your feelings here sweetie - will send a more eloquent message to _both_ brothers." Gretchen finishes, the fury literally radiating from her body.

"Exactly." Sara says in her last attempt to change Gretchen's mind. "You hurt his son and Lincoln will stop cooperating with you whatsoever!"

"Your point being?" presses Gretchen impatiently, obviously not yet seeing a satisfyingly significant point to make her change her mind about her scape-goat.

"If you take me, their motivation won't lessen. LJ is highly valuable for _both_ of them. I am…_expendable_." Sara gulps with a heavy pain in her chest, but one look at LJ's face is enough to convince her she is doing the right thing.

Gretchen smirks. "Nicely put Sara. You actually aren't as stupid as you look." She releases and brutally shoves LJ back into the room, crossing it harshly to grab at Sara's hair instead. She rises to her feet before Gretchen gets the chance to pull her up by it, sparing herself the unnecessary pain.

"I am sure a hot and brilliant guy like Scofield won't mourn an average bimbo like you for too long." Gretchen says before she starts dragging Sara into the direction of the door. Sara knows Gretchen words are only meant to hit and hurt, and the fact that her captor fully succeeded makes a small amount of bitter bile rise up her throat into her mouth.

The thought that all of this would come to an end like this almost makes her gag, the knowledge she will never see Michael again causing her heart to lurch in pain. At least, if they succeed, his nephew will hopefully live.

In a moment when Gretchen shouts at one of her man, Sara contorts and wrenches her bound hands, squeezing her fingers into the pocket of her jeans and groping for the rose she knows must be hidden somewhere inside. She finds the soft paper and extracts the origami masterpiece with one swift motion, letting it fall to the ground.

She doesn't know exactly why she does it, maybe she simply wants to leave something behind; something that will demonstrate that she actually existed in this world. And although there is no real way she can feel the rose missing from her pocket, she immediately feels a chill running down her spine, like she just lost something very essential to her.

As Gretchen grabs her anew and starts to drag her outside the door, Sara can hear LJ's screams of panic and fear. She squeezes her eyes in despair, tears of regret and pain starting to push themselves into her eyes as she hears Michael's nephew cry her name over and over again until they start to slowly die away. She forces her mind to think of something more pleasant. She forces her mind to think of Michael.

If she had a last wish, it would be to tell Michael she didn't regret a thing. She knows there is no way her wish will be granted to her in this life, however.

But maybe – just maybe - if the rose somehow miraculously reached Michael in the end, there would be a chance he understood what she wanted so desperate to say to him but couldn't.

Maybe he would simply understand how very much she loved him.

END

_Would love to hear your thoughts._


	11. Neglect

**Title:** Neglect  
**Characters:** Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, mentions of the rest of the Warehouse Team  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael  
**Genre**: angst, romance, POV  
**Rating**: R (just to be sure for some language and stuff, but would probably pass PG-13 standards too :))

**Word Count**: approx. 4000 words  
**Summary**: This story has been sitting on my hard drive for acouple of weeks now and Ifinally got to post it.

_**It**__**'s **__**Michael's POV regarding his relationship to Sara in S4,**__**concentrating on Michael's frustration about not being able to get throught to Sara**_**.**

It's probably set sometime in 4x05, 4x06, after Wyatts attempt to kill Sara.

**Spoilers**: S4.

**Warning: **Again, sorry but hasn't been betaed. All mistakes are mine.

**Neglect**

**Fretting**

Michael knew the word 'neglect' applied on more than one level in his relationship towards Sara Tancredi. He might have told her they were together and she could talk to him, he would be there for her, anytime. But deep down Michael knew that even if she found the strength to finally open up to him about her pain, there was no real way to put that idea into practice.

They had hardly had time to glance at each other over the table while working out the plan to get their hands on another card. And when they weren't planning, they were actually executing their plans. Everything else they were capable of doing in the remaining time was eating and sleeping.

There _were_ some fleeting moments, though. Moments that were only theirs, when they would quietly chat to each other about anything and everything; exchanging shy smiles, light touches, occasional kisses. These moments were however too rare and grew even thinner with each passing day.

Sara wouldn't show him she hurt, and yet Michael knew she hurt badly. He knew the reason for her silence too, and it didn't lighten his conscience at all.

Being always very conscious about how swamped with work and plans and worries and their safety Michael already was, Sara wouldn't want to add to that burden. It was in her very nature not to 'cause harm'.

This whole damned plan was lying on his shoulders and Sara would hide her pain in order to spare Michael additional worries and grief. It didn't take a genius to figure this out, of course. Her generous, selfless way was a well-known and experienced character trait Michael so much loved about her, but it was also something that didn't let him sleep at night.

Because Sara Tancredi was willing to give so much of her - quickly and willingly - this virtue of hers was often exploited by too many people throughout her whole life. At the present time, it was Michael who was the main recipient of her generosity and the greedy eagerness with which he accepted and took handfuls of what she had to offer surprised as well as frightened him. What hurt the most, however, was that she wouldn't accept anything offered in return.

The cards kept coming and Sara kept playing her part; obediently, amenably, flawlessly. She never complained, never declined a job. She was the perfect soldier, a help-offering friend, a good doctor, a soothing balm offering comfort whenever Michael needed one. She was reliable and impenetrable and always ready to shoulder as much as was coming her way, never complaining, all in order to help him carry the burden of responsibility for all of their lives.

Except that Sara didn't see one little crack in her good intended plans. Instead of being Michael's strength, she slowly started to become his weakness, her stubborn silence and simulated strength unnerved and unsettled Michael - _and yes, stung painfully too, with an absurd, almost bizarrely jealous touch to it – _to an extend where he often couldn't bring his mind to think clearly anymore, catching himself thinking about strategies of how to bring her talk to him instead of how to get to the next cardholder without being caught or killed in the process.

Her small warm smiles, encouraging words, as well as small humor she endowed him with were in strong contrast to Sara's self-protectiveness and silence regarding her own recent history of pain and violence, and it innerved Michael more than if she screamed her lungs out at him in anger, fear or despair.

Whenever he needed her, she was there. Whenever he was unsure or hesitant or had his conscience gnawed at by insecurity, she was there, offering comfort and advice. She was his beacon, his light, his conscience, and yet; whenever he tried to be the same for her, she shut him out. As if she was refusing to lean on him with her troubles and worries, as if she wanted to be left with her grief alone.

Michael got the feeling sometimes, that there was more to what she was hiding from him. _Far_ more actually, more to the little, thin slices of information she so carefully and hesitantly let drop to him about what happened to her in Panama. And each time, it cost him more and more effort to crack through her thick crust of self-protectiveness in their so rare private moments, happening when they were most intimate and there was no space to back away or hide anymore.

**Talking**

When they talked, it was either about their work or some hazy utopian future schemes both of them didn't believe they would ever live to get. Talking about her stay in Panama was still a taboo. Like a spell cast upon their already limited time together, they chose to talk about more enjoyable or urgent matters. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, the light and sometimes even silly banter with generally far deeper undertone felt really nice. And yet, it slowly started to feel all kinds of wrong to Michael. They were eschewing the inevitable and Michael was afraid that if they delayed a particular unpleasant conversation any longer, it could already be too late. He didn't want to rush her, didn't want to push her. Making her feel cornered was the last thing on Michael's mind, and yet he felt like he wasn't trying hard enough, unable to find to right way to get through to her.

Then again, this needed time. And when did they have the time and space to talk properly? Every time they found a quiet moment for themselves, they were immediately interrupted by '_someone needing something'_.

Whenever Michael crossed the warehouse on his way to her boat, he could feel at least a dozen of eyes glued to his back, following his steps, probably thinking he was only taking a break to get some pleasure - let some steam off. There was no way he could – nor in any way wanted - to explain to them, but their lack of tack and intolerance for a piece of privacy and happiness between the grim walls of the warehouse started to annoy Michael to no end. Who were they playing at?

Linc was calling Sofia and LJ whenever he got the chance, Sucre talked and dreamed about nothing but Maricruz and their daughter, Mahone was concentrated only on his revenge for what was done to his child and wife, and Roland and Bellick…well, they were simply being Roland and Bellick. Everybody was here for something, and everybody had personal interests in this game. _Everybody_ cared for someone. If not for others, then for their own good.

And yet, every time Michael sought a quiet moment with Sara, their looks made him feel like the only selfish person in the room. It was unfair and hypocrite and each time Michael felt their looks darting his back, his blood boiled a little bit more. What was worse, Sara seemed to sense the discontent about their relationship spreading around the warehouse like a disease too, which only caused her to close and isolate herself further, entertaining in a conversation with Michael only if absolutely necessary or when it was him who first sought out the contact.

The most inequitable thing was that although it might be the right assumption that Sara was the person who occupied Michael's mind most these days, she was also the person who he got to spent the most little time with. He _craved_ to spend more time with her - _talk to her, smile at her, touch her, any contact whatsoever would be more than enough_ - he just never actually got to execute his intentions, his plans always being intervened by one of the members of their team. And slowly, Michael started to get almost a paranoid impression it was done on purpose.

So instead of sitting down and having a proper, private talk with Sara, the only thing Michael was able to give her in their rare fleeting moments together was a bunch of empty promises and proclamations that were worth precisely nothing.

Dammit, he had already promised her dinner three times, and yet they still didn't have the time to grab as much as a plate of cold lasagnia together. She deserved else, she deserved better. She deserved time and care and attention and he wasn't giving her any of those things, and the failure of not providing even such rudimentary things to the woman he loved pressed so hard on him that sometimes, Michael felt like he was suffocating.

She lost her father, she has been nearly assassinated, kidnapped, apprehended, tried, tortured, and the only person left to her was just being killed by the Company, causing her conscious to crumble into pieces under the heavy weight of guilt.

And here they were, circling each other secretively, not able to talk or touch freely, and she knew - Michael was sure of that - if not before then now for sure - that_ One day_ was an empty phrase standing for everything he once promised to her but could never deliver. When she confessed where she went after finding out what happened to Bruce and after he left for the 'Eagles and Angels' banquet, that was the last drop into the sea for Michael. He obviously didn't pay that much attention at all. And when then - after everything that happened – Sara told him she would never lie to him, the weight of his own lies and secrets kept literally smashed his heart into shreds of blood and flesh.

**Yearn****ing**

One week. He would exchange everything he ever possessed for one week of time, where everything and everybody around them simply froze in time and space and there was no one else but the two of them. They would finally drop that little boat of hers into the water – _again, as once promised_ _yet never deliver_- and they would sail away, not important where but as far away as possible. And for one week, there would be no Company and no enemies and no burdens and no responsibilities and no fears of being harmed or killed or - _God damn it_ - tortured again.

This one week Michael would use to full extend. He would make her talk, he would make her cry, he would let the weight of the last weeks fall on his shoulders to carry for a change, and he would tell her that how much she meant for him wasn't expressible by words so instead, he would simply _show_ her.

Maybe he would even tell her about what bothered _him_. That he still couldn't believe when waking in the middle of the night with his heart thumping in his chest violently, that she was there, sleeping at her boat just across the warehouse. That he hated the things he was forced to do, things he _chose_ to do, after all hope was taken from him when being told about her death. That he loathed what was done to her and hated the people responsible for all that pain, pain he knew was now slowly tearing her soul apart.

Maybe he would even tell her about his headaches and nosebleeds, about his mother and her illness and his own fright that he may not be able to stand to his promises due to a thing neither of them can affect nor change. And maybe then, he would stop feeling like the biggest cheat ever walking this planet for hiding such a crucial fact about himself from her.

They would patch their scars and wounds up, even if not having the time to let them heal properly, and they would marvel in the fact they were able to escape the manic pace their lives had taken on, and for the shortest moments they would stop to merely _breathe_.

And then, on the last day, he would simply give them a break and make her laugh. He would crack stupid jokes and banter stupidly with her; all in order to see the corners of her mouth twitch upwards and her eyes roll over his foolish ways. He would gather her in his arms and breathe in her scent and discover all the places and curves of her body his fingers and mouth had not yet time to discover. He would pleasure her and let her pleasure him in return, and this time, he wouldn't feel guilty about it.

Yes, Michael would do _anything_ for getting that one week for the two them, and yet he very well knew he would never get a chance - however remotely similar - anytime soon.

**Keeping mum**

Two hours ago, she told him she had been at a bar almost falling into her own ways because he was yet again not there to catch her if she fell. It's been one hour and fifty-eight minutes since Mahone called them back into the god-damned warehouse to discuss the plan of how to get to the next card. And he hasn't had a second with her alone since then. She has been hurting even more than the days before, he could tell for it was painfully visible in the way she moved - a somehow controlled – cramped - unnatural way. God only knew what she had to go through in the bar she spent several hours at but didn't actually drink.

This was a part he actually believed without hesitation. What scared him was that in another darkest hour of hers, he was not there. A clean sleight seemed to have started of exactly the same way as the last one. Lies mixed with empty promises, as well as abandoning her, seemed like a pattern in his behavior he so desperately wanted to change but coincidence and faith kept deciding it for him otherwise. She said it would not happen again and that she was ok. The first part, he believed without as much as blinking, catching the hot determination in her eyes. The second part however, he couldn't. She hurt and she wouldn't let him in and it was tearing him apart, agonizingly slowly but the more powerfully. He wanted to give her time, but he also needed her to connect in return, he simply needed _her_. She was offering as well as giving all her strengths, but she wasn't willing to offer her weaknesses and Michael couldn't live with having only one half of the puzzle of Sara Tancredi, currently pressing her lips gently against his shoulder.

/

Earlier that day, Sara came rushing to the warehouse strongly panicked but otherwise unharmed, exactly at the same moment when he was already starting to lose his mind about her whereabouts. The only thing she was able to squeeze through her lips was that she was ok and that she has been followed by a man about whom Alex told them didn't hesitate to kill his five year old son.

There was no way the man could have followed her to the warehouse, she made sure of that, and again, Michael didn't doubt it for a second. She knew her business. But yet again, the question of _how_ she escaped and what she had to endure in order to accomplish it, plagued Michael's mind while his eyes skimmed the grimy clothes bathed in sweat and her pale, fear-stricken face.

It seemed like the more he tried, the more time and opportunity to talk to her slipped through Michael's fingers. But these were no small things anymore and Michael didn't know what troubled him more; the fact there was not even time to discuss the recent pursuit of a Company henchman to take her life, or the fact that Sara looked like she didn't expect any different. He sent her a silent plea of apology that said: '_I am sorry there is no time to talk about this right now',_ and he felt a stab of pain in his chest when he noticed she looked almost _relived _about it.

**Self-d****oubting**

What she had to offer to him - what she was _already_ giving him - the delight he felt every time he saw a shadow of a smile ghost over her lips when he smiled at her over the table or sent her a wink when nobody was looking – arose a feeling of doubt deep in his chest each and every time he was graced by one of her rare smiles. For was he, Michael Scofield, a man who deserved to be endowed by the love of a person like Sara? For amongst other things, Michael was still a man who sent another human being to a certain death by being buried alive. He was still a man who had too much blood on his hands. And he was certainly a man who had gone from making good things to doing –_in the most modest way said_- 'questionable' things, and Michael wasn't sure if he hadn't already gotten too much further than that. If he hadn't stepped beyond the border that would separate him from Sara's side, a side that was bathed in such an intoxicating pure and bright light.

Clean sleight or not, Michael was still making the same mistakes over and over again whereas she continued to offer herself so generously, so freely to him. And it drove him crazy sometimes for he couldn't see any logical reason as to '_why'_.

**Breaking the ****ice**

Michael brushes his knuckles over his forehead, feeling the headache spreading and growing stronger with every dark thought. Across the desk, he rather feels than actually sees Lincoln staring at him in deliberation. He chooses to ignore his brother's gaze. There is no way he is going to tell Sara about this, not when there is already this much loaded on her shoulders.

The blueprints on the table blur momentarily, swimming in front of his eyes and Michael does everything to suppress a heavy painful sigh.

He feels a soft, warm hand brushing his back and knows who it is without having to turn around.

"Hey, are you alright?" Sara asks quietly, placing a steaming cup of coffee on the table right in front of him. When he finally turns, he sees the concern for his well-being written all over her features. "Maybe you should take some rest. It's been a long day for you." She utters and again, he feels a stab of indefinable guilt for being the one to receive her love and care and the one to lie to her this shamelessly at the same time.

"I am fine." He replies back rejecting her offer, plastering an uneasy smile over his face and bringing his hands to rest upon the blueprints once more. He feels Lincoln's eyes burning into the side of his head, but he refuses to acknowledge his stare again. Sara's hand still rests splayed wide on his back and its warmness spreads through all of his body, magically calming his tense nerves. He looks at her anew, changing his mind in a split of a second.

"You know what? I think I could actually use some break. We both could." He rises from his seat and outstretches his hand in an invitation, absolutely ignoring their current company. "Care to join me?"

She looks a bit taken aback - awkward even - at first, but then without any further question nods and takes his hand.

"Yeah." She breathes and he holds her look, telling her there is no hidden agenda behind his words except to finally being able to spent some time together. In the back of his mind, he hears Roland letting out some stupid remark which is followed by a loud smack, probably caused by Lincoln's open palm colliding with the back of Roland's head. _Serves him right._

They walk from the warehouse in silence, but the moment the door loudly shuts behind them, Michael turns around and entangles Sara in a tight embrace, burying his face into the crook of her neck, openly –almost shamelessly- breathing in the heady scent of her soft hair. She is still a little startled, for she tenses for the slightest of moments, but then she relaxes in his arms, letting him hold her tightly against him.

"Is everything alright?" Sara asks in concern, but he merely smiles into her hair, still pressing her small frame tightly against him.

"Yes, everything is alright." He tells her with his smile growing, his lips brushing the tender skin of her neck. Michael can feel how his body starts to relax almost immediately. It feels like he is melting into her, with her, and Michael continues to take in the sweet warm scent he got used to associate with her and her only over the little time they've spent together this closely.

"Want to call it a night and grab some food? I remember promising you dinner once." He utters at last, shifting the pace of mood on purpose, painfully aware his somehow odd behavior might unsettle her, and that would be the very last thing he would want to achieve today.

She withdraws ever so slightly in order to look into his eyes carefully, as if evaluating the honesty as well as sanity of his question. Then the corners of her mouth twitch upwards, and a lazy grin spreads over her face, eyes shining for the first time that day.

"Actually, you promised me dinner _three_ times already." She replies, closing the distance between them and planting a languid kiss on his mouth, successfully teasing all his senses.

"Does cold lasagna work for you?" Michael asks, gulping hard when catching a spark of light in her warm eyes.

"Cold lasagna sounds pretty damn good to me right now." She breathes, a sudden soft chuckle escaping her lips. Michael feels her muscles relax under his touch, noting the tight knots of nerves in her body finally starting to untangle. She lays her head to his chest, right over his heart, listening to the steady rhythm for a few moments, her eyes closed, breathing even.

"Thank you." Sara utters quietly a few moments later, shifting her head and burying her face into his chest as deep as his body allows. He can feel the tight press of her nose against him and his heart tightens with emotion.

"For what?" His tone is quiet and a bit guarded as he cradles her against him, pulling her even closer, a sudden insane wish to make her sink into him completely. He can feel her hands pressing deep into his back, her embrace on him painfully - almost desperately - tightening.

"For reminding me that I'm not all alone in this world yet." He can hear her voice breaking and it's all he can do not to take her by the hand and break into a run, fleeing away with her right here, right now.

"We will do this more often; finding a little time only for ourselves." He says as he cradles her head against his chest, his hand stroking her hair affectionately. "That's a promise. One I won't break this time." Michael adds in a voice that's a bit choked and he knows this is a pledge he won't allow himself to break.

"I know." She utters confidently and he wishes he could feel such certainty too. Instead, he bows his head and kissed her.

END

_Ok, I need some SERIOUS feedback here, cause I don't know what to think about this fic myself. I've written in a kind of an emotional crisis a few weeks ago and changed some bits about it now,__ but I honestly don't know what to think about this. So I need some tough love here guys. Please, feel free to let me know not only your positive, but as well as negative thoughts about this. :) I honestly have no idea how this will come through and how much it varies from my original writing, but I have a feeling it does. Any ideas why? _


	12. Bikini

Because a certain someone - points her finger at chattycat - asked for acontinuation of my fic Strong (that Iwrote for msgenevieve's birthday) in which Michael would get to see Sara in that gorgeous golden bikini. So here it is, hon, just for you. Hope you'll enjoy. :)

**Title:** Bikini  
**Characters:** Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Fernando Sucre, Lincoln Burrows, Roland,  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael  
**Genre**: gen, romance, fluff, pwp  
**Rating**: R (for some sexual situation, yet nothing too explicit..._unfortunately_...;))  
**Word Count**: approx. 2000 words  
**Summary**: _Is there away Michael would get to see Sara in that gorgeous golden bikini? In my world, there sure is_!

This is the continuation to my other fic called **Strong**, but you don't neccessarily have to read that one in order to understand this.  
**Spoilers**: 4x07  
**Warning: **Again, hasn't been betaed. All mistakes are mine.

**Bikini**

Sucre is on his way through the warehouse heading to the kitchen to get some snack, when he sees it, peeking out from a big pile of papers heaped on the table in front of Roland. He crosses the remaining space between him and Roland in no time and before the dark haired man has any chance to notice not to mention to protest, Sucre grabs the photo half-hidden underneath Roland's paper pile. While he stares at it in shock disbelief, Roland's hands fly into the air in a gesture of surrender.

"Look man, it's not what you think…" Stutters Roland but Sucre silences him with one angry look. He shoves the photo into Roland's face. "Isn't it? Great, so I guess you will have no problems to explain _this_ to Michael then?" Hisses Sucre and watches with satisfaction when the younger man starts to panic.

"Alright, alright, just don't call Mr. Genius, ok?" Roland's hands are flying around the air in nervous gesticulation, his eyes flying occasionally to the picture in Sucre's hand, wondering what chance to succeed he might have if he simply rips the photo from Sucre's grasp and runs. One look into the Latino's angry face telling him – _Don't even go there!_ - makes him reconsider. He surrenders.

"Listen amigo, I am sure we may reach some agreement, just don't tell Mr. Jealous Boyfriend, alright?"

Sucre merely snorts in disgust. "I am not your _amigo_ and I certainly won't cover a filthy little scumbag like you!" He squeezes through his teeth before turning around, shouting through the warehouse at the top of his lungs.

"Yo, Pappi! I need you here for a sec!"

Michaels and Lincolns heads appear on the upper deck, their faces one of surprised curiosity.

"What's up, Sucre?" calls Michael downstairs, probably being interrupted in the middle of conversation with Lincoln.

"Just get down here, will ya?" Sucre calls and sees Michael nod a bit reluctantly, then both the brothers are descending the stairs in a few quick strides. Roland buries his face in his hands.

_Busted._

When Michael and Lincoln are close enough for Sucre to lower his voice significantly, he outstretches his hand, handing over a photo to Michael. Lincoln watches with concern how his brother takes a sharp – almost shocked – intake of breath, then casts a furious and inquiring look back at Sucre.

"I found that in his papers." Sucre tells Michael, who now keeps switching his stare between the photo in his hands and Roland.

"You have five seconds to spill." Michael says in a very low and uncharacteristically dangerous voice, the knuckled grasping the photo turning white. Lincoln finally tilts his head in interest to be able to see the obviously very incriminating photo. He almost gasps himself.

It's a photo of Sara from Vegas, wearing only her golden bikini, the accessories as well as the light, scarf-like brown top missing. She is probably getting prepared for her little act with Scuderi and she is obviously completely oblivious to the picture being taken. Lincoln feels his own blood starting to boil and he casts a look at Michael. His brother's eyes are darting into Roland, red-hot daggers flying in the black-haired man's direction and boring themselves right into his chest.

"Look…I just…it's not what you think…it was just for fun!" tries Roland, thought his cool posture obviously crumbled under Michael's look.

"Does _this_," Michael jerks his hand holding the photo, yet doesn't show it directly to the small audience present at the scene, "look like _fun_ to you?"

"No man, it's not…I…"

"Does _she_ look like fun to you?" Michael literally hisses the words out of his mouth. This little scumbag really had the guts to take such pictures – _any pictures_ – of Sara, without her – and his – knowledge, and he even leaves them laying around like this for anybody to see?

"No! Of course not." Utters Roland quietly, casting his eyes down to the ground, and Lincoln contemplates if the short man hasn't pissed himself yet, for the tone and look Michael is giving him really could kill.

"Are there _any_ other pictures?" Michael asks in hardly pretended calm, the quiet command in his voice more menacing than an actual physical assault.

Roland shakes his head frightened, his eyes still cast downwards, not daring to look at Michael.

"Look at me Roland…" demands Michael and Sucre can't but admire the calm dignity Michael is handling this with. If it were him and that was a picture of Maricruz, this man would already lie in a pool of his own blood on the floor.

Roland's eyes start to rise slowly, until he has no other choice than to actually look into Michael's livid face.

"…and tell me…." Michael continues, his voice still quiet and of controlled calm, obviously suppressing fierce anger. "…are there _any_ other pictures?"

"No." Utters Roland at last, finally looking directly at Michael.

"_Fine_. Now listen to me you little perverse pig. If you ever disrespect her like this - or any other way for that matter - again, I will personally arrange with Self to get you a nice warm cell with a guy who has a rap-sheet long as my arm and who likes to cuddle during those very long, lonely nights in prison. And if I _ever_ find as much as a school photo of Sara in the proximity of 10 feet from you, I even won't wait for Self to handle it. Now, are we clear?"

"Crystal clear." mumbles Roland, restlessly shifting in his spot.

"Now _walk_." Commands Michael, and Roland has much to do not to break into a run as he quickly slips from the circle of three dangerously glaring men.

X/X

"Hey." calls Michael softly to Sara, pushing the door to the cabin of her SS Minnow open.

She raises her head, flashing him a bit of a tired yet still genuine smile. "Hey yourself."

She is sitting on her bunk, legs crossed underneath her, studying some kind of documents they collected about the Company and their main players.

"You busy?" He asks carefully, patiently waiting for her answer, still standing almost half in her doorway.

"No, not at all. Come on in." She calls reassuringly and his back finally unglues from the door frame, making his way to the bunk. He sits down next to her.

"I just wanted to give you this." He says and hands her a photo. She gasps when she sees her own blood and flesh – _too much flesh to be exact_ – looking at her from the photo.

"Where did you get this?" She asks in a choked voice, her hand slightly shaking.

"Sucre found it in Roland's stuff today." Michael explains. "But don't worry, I made sure this was the _only_ copy and that something like this wouldn't happen ever again." He assures her while looking over her features slightly worried, not exactly knowing what to expect.

Sara lets out a deep, shaky sigh. "That little sneaky bastard…" she murmurs disbelievingly, her gaze still trained upon her own photo.

"Yeah." Michael utters, studying her profile the dimly-lit room. "I'm sorry." He adds and she finally unglues her gaze from the picture.

"For what?" Sara asks in surprise. "You did nothing wrong." She says shaking her head, a soft smile touching her lips.

"You ok then?" Michael asks carefully and hears her let out a soft chuckle.

"With _this_?" She says and waves the photo in the air demonstratively. "Sure." Sounding like she couldn't care less, she rolls her eyes at him and Michael can feel his chest unclenching. She softly smiles at him.

"Thank you for giving it to me though. I could simply throttle that little pervert." She adds disgruntled, then flashes Michael a hopeful look. He can't help but chuckle lightly.

"I am sorry, but that matter has already been handled." He says and watches her face to turn into a somewhat disappointed grimace. His grin only grows. "You know," he starts with a smirk, giving his tone a conspiratorial shade, "both, Lincoln and Sucre, promised to break both of his arms if he ever pulled a shit like this again."

"But _you_…didn't." Says Sara, her eyebrows rising in what's more a question than a statement and Michael can tell they just sailed into the safe waters of their usual pleasant teasing banter.

"Well, I promised to break something…_else_." Says Michael a bit coyly, giving her a charming grin she can nothing but return with a warm, good-natured giggle.

"Thank you for your chivalry then." Sara says playfully before bending forward and kissing him lightly on the lips. She brings her hands to rest tenderly – protectively – at the nape of his neck, and Michael knows there in no other way he could feel more relaxed and content right now.

"Sooo…" starts Michael, drawing lazy circles with his own thumb over the curve of her hip. "What do you plan to do with that photo now?" he asks, giving the photo in question a curious look. Sara shrugs in what probably means something along the lines of – '_will probably throw it away' –_ but then casts him an amused look when catching a small spark – _Is it disappointment?_ - in his eyes. Her eyes widen in surprise and her face breaks into a huge, cheerful smile.

"Do _you _want it?" She asks suggestively, holding up the photo to him flirtatiously. She can see the eagerness to get the photo as well as the shy moral-driven hesitation in his eyes and she can't decide whether it's rather endearing or simply annoying. In the end, she goes for both, rolling her eyes and releasing a soft chuckle at the same time.

"Cut yourself some slack, Michael." She says, holding the photo out to him. He carefully takes it and gives her a thankful sheepish look, then casts a look at the photo, letting out a shaky sigh.

"So _this_ is what you've been wearing in Vegas?" Her eyes sparkle mischievously when she quips one silent and amused – _yep_.

"Wow, I am now even more sorry I wasn't there than I was before." He says before noticing a mysterious smile dancing over her lips.

"Well, no need to be sorry." She says, flashing him a mysterious smile. "Let's say that I've managed to save that particular piece of clothing for further use."

"Saved?" he is far more than merely intrigued now. "What further use are we speaking about exactly?" His voice barely conceals his excitement and she can't help but grin broadly.

"For when you actually manage to drop this SS Minnow onto the water." She says and can see his look tender at her words, his eyes glassing over ever so slightly. She bends forward again, until her mouth reaches the hollow of his ear.

"That bikini is the _only_ thing I've got prepared in my duffle bag for when the time comes for us to sail into the sunset together." She whispers and feels a great deal of satisfaction when he shudders against her in pleasure. One hand resting on his cheek, she brings her other to rest at the hollow of his hip. "And I promise you now, that if you manage to pull this off, it will be the only piece of clothing you'll see me in for a whole month."

Michael gulps. "Only that?"

Sara nods against the side of his head, her warm breath brushing his neck, sending all his senses into overdrive. "Or _less_." She adds, kissing the lobe of his ear.

"Uhm, that I call highly developed…_motivational skills_." replies Michael in a husky voice, finally surrendering to her irresistible seduction technique and bringing his lips to kiss her hard, using his hands to shift her tighter against him. "But you know," he manages to breathe through their kisses, desperately trying to show he is capable of at least some resistance against her, "The nights at the sea can get pretty cold."

"Then," Sara simply states, her lips brushing his while she is speaking in the sweetest kind of torture, "you will have to find a way how to keep me warm. I am sure you will come up with something."

She can feel him draw a white flag of surrender immediately at her words, bringing her even closer to him, the swell of his trousers now pressing hard against her thigh.

"Sara?"

"Uh-huh?"

"How about a little sneak-peak until we are there?"

She only grins mischievously into his neck.

"I thought you'd never ask."

END

_Ok, so obviously, I was in a veeery mischievous mood when writing this. But I enjoyed the writing immensely and I hope you people enjoyed as much reading it. :) Let me know your thoughts. _


	13. Regulars

**This is a birthday fic for the wonderful**** tvalcoholic****, who asked for a Michael­/Sara fic set two years from now, that would incorporate dinner time. Well, here it comes, I hope you will enjoy it, Pauline. *hugs you* **

**Title:** Regulars  
**Characters:** Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi  
**Pairing**: Sara/Michael  
**Genre**: gen, romance, **fluff**, a tiny little piece angst,  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Word Count**: approx. 1800 words  
**Summary**: _Usually, she didn't like cooking at all, she preferred other people do the job instead of her, but today should be different. She was cooking for Michael._  
**Spoilers**: sliiiiight S4  
**Warning: **The threat of a sugar and fluff , hasn't been betaed. All mistakes are mine.

**Regulars**

Sara carefully pushed the cut tomatoes from the wooden board into the pan, roasting them lightly on the oil.

_The meat was almost done and needed to be taken out any second now_, reminded Sara frantically before stirring the now crimson-red mass in the pan. Usually, she didn't like cooking at all, preferring other people do the job for her in form of take-out, but today should be different. She was cooking for Michael.

The dish she chose to prepare was something special to Sara and she wanted Michael to taste it as well. Her mother used to make the dish for her when she was young, always when for some – _any_ - reason Sara was sad; mother knowing her daughter well enough to know she loved the combination of meat and roasted vegetables over anything else.

However, it didn't look that difficult when her mother was preparing the food. Right now, Sara felt like going into overdrive just by having to watch the meat _and_ the vegetables at the same time. She couldn't comprehend how her mother was able to cook a few different things at once while making it look like the easiest thing in the world, plus kindly smiling and talking to her saddened child throughout the whole process.

Sara snapped from her musings at the shrill beeping sound announcing the meat being ready to be taken out of the oven, so she grabbed the protective gloves, ready to open the burning door of the oven, but something caught her attention, making her freeze to her spot.

The roasting tomatoes were making a hissing sound in the pan, yet Sara could hear a very quiet click, indicated their back door had just clinked into its lock. She felt her limbs freeze at the sound in frantic alert; her former instincts and habits she learned the hard way not fading with time one bit.

_It's Michael. It can be _only_ Michael._ She reasoned with herself. And yet, she knew he promised he wouldn't come into the house until she personally called him in. They've made this somehow strange agreement for the purpose of the whole dish staying a secret to Michael until the very end and Sara knew Michael was never one to break his promises.

And still, when she strained her ears, above the hissing sounds of the tomatoes and oil in the pan, muffled yet distinctive sounds could be heard throughout their small beach house.

Sara shot a nervous look in the direction of the front door, considering flight for the shortest of moments, then she mentally berated herself for being so foolish. _Of course if was Michael, who else would it be, right?_ He might just have forgotten something and intended to sneak into the house the grab it and then sneak out without her noticing.

She slowly started to make her way towards the hall, noting the quiet sounds were coming from the bathroom. The wooden stirrer still clasped in her hand, she only now noticed she held it firm and high, like a potential weapon.

"Michael? Is that you?" She called in a bit breathless voice, begging heavens to get a positive reply.

"Y'ah, ib me. Dob't worry…" Came back from the bathroom, and Sara was so relieved by the fact it was her lover rather than an assassin in their house, that she even overheard the strange way he was talking in. She felt the rush of adrenaline leaving her body quickly, and she even gave a small chuckle at her silliness, when she remembered he wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. She made her way through the hallway, entering the big space of their bathroom.

"What are you doing here? You promised not to come back until I called you, the dinner is not finishe…" She stopped mid-sentence the moment she spotted the thick towel Michael was pressing onto his nose.

"What…?" she started, but all of a sudden, she didn't need to hear the answer anymore. _A towel – pressed against Michael's nose – my God, a bleeding nose, _she onlynow noted –_ and that somewhat guilty expression on his face – the sneaking in –_it all clicked together in one horrible fraction of a second. The stirrer fell from her hand, her mouth opening in a shocked gasp.

Michael's eyes widened at the sight of her, only now realizing the conclusion she made from seeing him like this.

"Ib not wha' u 'ink!" he said quickly, his hands flying into the air in a gesture of surrender. The thick towel momentarily left its former place of covering his nose and was now dangling from one of Michael's hands.

Sara's eyes scanned Michael'sface in fear and despair.

_The nosebleeds are back. My God, they are back, they are back! _

Her mind frantic, her heart started to pound faster than if, indeed, an assassin tried to take her life right now.

Then, however, she noticed something else. Michael's face was flushed, the side of his face scratched, and his nose a bit…crooked and…smashed.

_Thank God! He must have hurt his face along with his nose. It was NOT a spontaneous nosebleed but rather the result of an injury._

She let out a huge, shaky breath, bringing her hands up, her fingers digging painfully into her hips. Her breath was quick and elaborate. Finally, Sara's knees broke underneath her and her frame sunk to rest on the edge of the large bathtub.

Michael brought the towel back to his face and made his way toward Sara, quietly sitting down beside her. With his free hand he encircled her shoulders, bringing her face to rest against his chest. She complied without as much as blinking.

"I'b sorry. I didn't bant to scare u. I sbashed my bace and came back to stob the bleebing." His fingers stroking her hair lightly, he squeezed her tighter against himself. "I once bromised u that ib the nosebleebs came back, you bould be the birst bon to 'now. I bould neber break that bromise." He whispered quietly, still covering his bleeding nose with the towel.

They sat there for a couple of moments in silence, Michael giving Sara space to pull herself together, although his grip didn't lessen on her one bit. She finally raised her head, looking at him with slightly glassy eyes, a sad smile dancing over her lips.

"I know. I panicked. Sorry."

"Ib ok." He smiled and she returned his smile tenfold.

Sara brought her hands up, covering his that were still pressing the towel against his face, and pulled them down carefully. "Show me that nose." She uttered and he obliged. Indeed, the nose was…smashed. She used her fingers to press to some points, uttering a quiet '_sorry'_ here and there when pressing on a particularly painful spot causing Michael to wince in pain.

"Well, for what it's worth, it's not broken." She said in a small voice in the end, giving Michael a soft smile. "Now, let me patch you up." She added, raising to her feet and crossing the room to retrieve a first-aid kit from a cupboard. Slipping into her doctor-self helped her recover from the previous shock a little quicker and Michael knew this very well too, so he let her do her job without commenting. And it wasn't like he wouldn't want Sara touching his face in _any_ time, space or circumstances, ever. It took her only mere five minutes, some antiseptic cream and a little strip of gauze fixed by a plaster to finish the job.

"There. As good as new." She said looking at him proudly. Then, unable to resist the urge, she gently grasped his head in both of her hands and planted a soft kiss to his forehead. She heard him exhale deeply and the sound, for whatever reason, made her smile knowingly.

She pulled his head further towards her, letting it rest underneath her chin, her cheek grazing over the stubby hair. "So tell me, how did you manage to bang your face in those mere 20 minutes I left you alone to yourself?" She said playfully, a pretended incredulousness coating her voice. She had a hard time to mask a laughter that threatened to erupt from her throat and Michael knew at this precise moment that they were ok. He withdrew from her ever so slightly to be able to look at her, enjoying her hands entwined at the back of his neck massaging it lightly, then gave her a small sheepish look.

"I got carried away while swinging and fell from the hammock." He uttered, grinning in embarrassment. Sara, however, frowned.

"Michael, we don't have a hammock." Michaels grin turned into a smug smirk while he gave her his most sexy look.

"We do now."

He observed with satisfaction when her eyebrows raised, her lips shaping a little _'Oh'_ before forming themselves into a wild grin of her own.

"We do?" her voice was low and sexy – _God, so sexy!_ - and it was more a curious, wicked statement than a question. A sudden rush of warm liquid spread throughout Michael's insides when he saw the – _now so familiar yet still maddening_ – erotic look in her eyes. He gulped dryly, able to utter only a confirming _'Uh-huh'_ before bending forward, taking her by surprise and kissing her hard, his heart leaping with joy when her mouth opened beneath his in an instant invitation. He suppressed the pain by which his bruised nose protested against the rubbing contact between their faces, but it was only a small price to pay for feeling her sweet and irresistible taste.

However, something didn't seem right to Michael, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was exactly that disturbed him.

Sara continued the lazy strokes of her tongue against his own and that was definitely more than alright. His hands were moving underneath the hem of her shirt and this seemed right also.

Was it the fact that his nose was protesting? No, it could go straight to hell, but Michael wouldn't trade this moment for anything. Yet, he knew it had something to do with his nose. Then it hit him.

_Something was horribly stinking. _A sharp odor of burned cooking hit his nose and he pulled from an obviously oblivious Sara in an instant.

"Ehm, Sara? What are we having for dinner again?" He asked subtly, noticing her expression going from very content to very dismayed in a fraction of a second.

"Dammit!" She cried desperately while already jumping to her feet and hurrying towards the smelly kitchen in an attempt to minimize the damage. Michael smirked, extracting his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a familiar number and patiently waited for the Pizza Place to pick up, smiling about the fact he had the Pizza restaurant at speed-dial. Yep, the Scofields were regulars, and Michael wouldn't want it any other way.

END

_Your thoughts?_


	14. Secret Craving

**Title: **Secret Craving

**Author:** lizparker6  
**Prompt by** **coffee_mill:** Prison Break. Michael/Gretchen. Free pick.  
**Rating:** R (for language)

**Genre: **Gen, Angst, Drabble, POV and Gosh, even a tiny little of a Crack!fic *shocked face*  
**Spoilers:** Season 4  
**Word Count:** 250  
**Warnings:** Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes .

**Authors note** – **Coffee_mill**, I don't know If this is at least near something you were hoping for, but I truly hope I didn't disappoint. *crosses her fingers for herself*

And **HA!, **I've managed to squeeze it into EXACTLY 250 words! *nods proudly*

**Secret Craving**

They are '_partners_'. And yet, there is nothing in this world Michael would more love than throw her to the sharks. He doesn't believe a word that leaves her mouth. And despite the sickening chill in his stomach, he has a pervert craving to cause her tremendous pain for what she did to Sara.

Michael observes at the sneering woman in front of him closely.

She is pretty by nature, yet she hides behind a thick mask of make-up.

She is smart, yet she underestimates others, which is her weakness.

She plays her cards well and holds them tight to her chest.

In another life, she might have been an actress. Her expression always impenetrable, never giving away any secrets, she'd probably be a successful one. In fact – _Michael muses_ - she would make an exquisite villain.

She might have a house somewhere in Beverly Hills, maybe a dog or two she would take a hike with. She may even be a loving mother.

But that's another universe. In this one, Michael looks into Gretchen's sneering face and he feels hate and resentment towards this cold-hearted bitch. Every time he looks into those icy-blue eyes, he sees a predatory hunger and a challenge to play her sick-minded game. His hate rises to a level where he must either strike her hard or walk away the furthest possible.

And all along, his mind rings with a distinctive cracking sound of a sharp whip, slicing through the most delicate and gentle flesh.

END


	15. Day One

**Title: **Day One

**Author:** lizparker6  
**Prompt by**** jengal20 ****:** Prison Break. Michael/Sara. Kissing in rain.  
**Rating:** PG

**Genre: **romance, fluff, angst  
**Spoilers:** Season 4  
**Word Count:** again, exactly 250 words *grins smugly*  
**Warnings:** A/N: Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes . These fic is posted in response to **this meme**.

**Day One**

Raindrops start to fall down the day the SS Minnow leaves the docks in Los Angeles. Two figures stand at the deck of the small ship, watching the land disappear from their sight. With every passing yard, their souls feel lighter, the burden easier to carry. From now one, they can share it freely. Privately.

The woman giggles when heavy drops start to pour down, soaking their embracing bodies to the bone. They couldn't care less. Watching the horizon, all they can see is freedom, time, space, hope, and unimaginable possibilities.

But what's most important, it's just them, _together_. _One day_ just became _today_, tomorrow_, _forever_._

The man is still awed. And scared, for he is cautious to believe this to be true, that there actually _was_ an ending at the other side of the tunnel.

The woman doesn't waver. She is happy the first time in what feels like years and she doesn't want to look back. Not now, anyway. And while the man is still reluctant to believe, she does without a hint of hesitation.

She turns in his embrace and her hands curl around his neck gently, pulling him down into a delicate kiss. She doesn't know if she is imagining it, but his cheeks seem wet not only due to the rain. Her chest is bursting with happiness and heartache at the same time. She looks into his glassy eyes still marked by sorrow and gently smiles.

"This is _day one_." She whispers and he smiles.

XXX

_Your thoughts?_


	16. Two choices, One option

**Title: **Two choices, One option

**Author:** lizparker6  
**Prompt by**ladykaru**:** Prison Break. Michael/Sara. Michael cheers Sara up when she's sad.  
**Rating:** PG

**Pairing:** Michael/Sara

**Genre: **angst, romance, fluff  
**Spoilers(!):** Season 4, 4x10 – The Legend  
**Word Count:** Again, exactly 250 Words *gives herself a high five*  
**Warnings:** A/N: Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes .

_**Ladykaru: **I know that you may have expected something more lighter than this, and I am sorry it didn't turn out completely that way, but I hope you will enjoy it nevertheless. I wrote it especially for you, out of my heart. *hugs you tight*_

**Two choices, One option**

They sit in silence, her boat for once feeling more like a mental jail rather than their sanctuary. They need to talk. It's official now; Michael is gravely ill. It's a raw, painfully exposing fact, and there is no way they can avoid it anymore.

Michael knows she expects him to talk first. She has already done her part, gave him his options. Now, it's his turn to talk.

He has two options. Either he tells her he will have the operation tomorrow, or he tells her he is willing to take the risks and continue their work until they are done.

He knows his answer, and he suspects so does she. There was never another way, the choice being just an illusion arising from their despair.

And all of a sudden, Michael knows they actually don't need to have this conversation at all. Everything is already decided for them, no matter how desperate they wish to have a real saying in this. They simply _don't_.

So Michael chooses to use their limited time otherwise. He turns towards Sara, a light smile touching his lips.

"So…you told the triage nurse you were my _wife_?"

She gives him an incredulous look yet chuckles lightly despite herself, color creeping into her cheeks. She understands. And she accepts the challenge.

"Why, did you mind?" She flirtatiously utters back.

"No." He takes her hand into his. "I only regret it's not the truth." She smiles softly, squeezing his hand in return.

"So do I."

XXX

_Your thoughts?_


	17. A Pyrrhic Victory

**Title: **A Pyrrhic Victory

**Prompt by**clair_de_lune**:** Prison Break. Michael and Lincoln (**NOT PAIRING!**). On the road.  
**Characters: **Michael, Lincoln, (mentions of LJ and Sara)

**Pairing: **implied Michael/Sara

**Rating:** PG

**Genre: **family, angst, friendship, missing scene  
**Spoilers:** Season 3  
**Word Count:** aaand again, EXACTLY 250 words *high fives herself*  
**Summary: **This fic might be considered as a missing scene from the episode 3x13, where Michael and Lincoln drive to Sofia's apartment.

**A** **Pyrrhic Victory**

Lincoln watches the road only partially, his main object of observation sitting next to him. His brother is quiet. In fact, Michael didn't utter a single word since they left LJ and Sofia at the hospital to find what Whistler left behind.

Lincoln is concerned. He knows what's probably on his brother's mind, but he doesn't dare to address the topic, Michael's emotional wound still being too fresh and painful.

"You hungry?" he asks, but Michael shakes his head.

"You should eat something. I could stop and get you some…"

"Could we just get there, please?" Interrupts Michael sharply, eyes trained upon the road ahead.

"Sure."

Silence settles in. Michael's jaw is stubbornly clenched and Lincoln sighs.

"Listen Michael…" he starts uneasily. "I still haven't thanked you for what you did for LJ."

Michaels gaze unglues from the road for a moment to look at his brother, his eyes for the first time unguarded and shining pain and grief. Lincoln's chest squeezes with sorrow.

"LJ is my nephew, and I love him very much. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him." Michael's voice is earnest and a tight lump forms in Lincoln's throat.

"Or _you_, for that matter." Adds Michael quietly, his eyes two honest pools, and Lincoln feels his own well up with involuntarily tears before he again trains his eyes upon the road.

"I know." He mumbles. "And I am so sorry for what happened to…" He can't finish however, for the lump is back.

"I know."

xxxx

_Your thoughts?_


	18. Of tired Smiles and Merciful lies

**Title: **Of tired smiles and merciful lies  
**Prompt by**shalia74**:** Prison Break. Michael/Sara. 4x10 – Hospital+Kiss.  
**Rating:** PG

**Genre: **Angst, Romance, Missing scene  
**Spoilers:** Season 4  
**Word Count:** exaclty 250 words (you can count if you don't believe it ;))  
**Warnings:** A/N: Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes .

**Summary: **Can be viewed as a possible mising scene during 4x10 in the hospital.

**Of tired smiles and merciful lies**

The waiting is unbearable and Michael knows that if not for Sara being here with him, he would have left hours ago. To be honest, if not for Sara, he wouldn't be here at all.

Michael watches Sara sitting next to him and quietly observing their surroundings and Michael thanks heavens once again for being given another chance with her.

She is lost in her thoughts and her forehead is wrinkled with worry, her fingers running through her auburn curls in an absent-minded gesture.

Michael reaches out catching her hand - just as she is about to comb her hair again - gently clasping it into his. He draws it to his face and kisses it softly. She looks at him with a light start then flashes him a tired smile.

"Penny for your thoughts." utters Michael despite the answer being written all over her face. She smiles broadly yet Michael isn't fooled; she is worried sick. And honestly, so is he. There are so many things that need closure, there is still so much to finish.

And then there is _them_, and Michael doesn't want to be robbed of the chance for a future with her by something as banal as his health.

"Just…" she shrugs, "…remembering my residency days, I guess." She smiles and his guts twitch at her lie of mercy. Michael bends forward, kissing Sara lovingly.

"We can do this. We _will_ do this." She whispers against his lips and Michael desperately wants to believe it.

XXX

_Your thoughts?_


	19. Preparation can take you only so far

**Title: **Preparation can take you only so far  
**Prompt by**mavoisine**:** Prison Break. Michael and LJ (not pairing, of course ;))._Fence Talks_ Universe – Filet Mignon.  
**Characters: **Michael, LJ (Mentions of Lincoln and Sara)

**Pairing: **Michael/Sara

**Rating: **PG

**Genre: **romance, fluff, family, drabble, AU  
**Word Count:** 250  
**Warnings:** A/N: Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes .

**Summary: **This piece is set in the universe of my WIP story '_Fence Talks._' For those who are not familiar, Michael was released from Sona but in a bad condition.

**Preparation can take you only so far**

He is tired and still quite feeble to even get up from his bed. Yet mentally, Michael's brain already works on full speed, his plans including a certain auburn-haired doctor.

However, if he doesn't get up from this bed very soon, his plans will stay only in realms of wishful thinking. He can barely sit for more than twenty minutes and even then needs the support of numerous cushions.

Michael sighs in frustration. He needs help, he knows, but whom to ask for something this…._delicate_?

The door creaks open and the head of his nephew appears in the doorway.

"Hey Uncle Mike, you up? Dad sent me to check on you and ask if you needed anything. He finally forced Sara to get some sleep, so you are stuck with me I guess." He flashes Michael a genuine smile and Michael feels the corners of his own mouth twitch upwards.

"No I am fine." He says but rethinks immediately. "Actually, I could use your help with something…"

LJ steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "Of course Uncle Mike. Anything."

"I kinda need…could you please…" Michael surrenders, "…find a recipe for Filet Mignon and write it down for me, then go shopping for the ingredients?" Michael's ears burn with awkwardness yet LJ only smiles knowingly.

"Sara?"

"Yeah, Sara." Admits Michael sheepishly and LJ laughs.

"Consider it done!" Without any further questioning LJ leaves the room in order to execute Michael's plans.

_God, __how he only loves this kid._

_XXX_

_Your thoughts?_


	20. Another Way

**Title: **Another Way  
**Prompt by **lind_s**:** Prison Break. Michael/Sara. Hiding in a cabbin fluff.  
**Characters/Pairing:** Michael/Sara

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre: **drabble, fluff, romance

**Spoilers:** none  
**Word Count:** 250 words  
**Warnings:** A/N: Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes .

**Summary: **This is lind_s original prompt, I quote**: **_Michael and Sara had to run the authorities and ended up alone in a cabbin, in the middle of nowhere, where they had to hide out for a few days.._

And here is the result....:)

**Another Way**

The cabin is small but warm and most importantly - safe. They need a hideout and this is the perfect place. Rain's been pouring down soaking them both wet and Michael now sees Sara's frame shivering violently. Outstretching his hand towards her in silent invitation, he guides her to a small and only bed in the room.

"Don't worry, we are safe here. Now, you have to take your wet clothes off."

Michael removes a thick duvet, urging Sara to slip under. She obliges but when he turns to leave, she grabs his hand tightly.

"What about you, where are you going?" He only smiles.

"Just want to start the fire to get us warm, I'll be back right away." She nods and hesitantly releases his hand.

20 minutes later, they are comfortably nested on the narrow bunk, hiding under the duvet and bathing in the warmth from the fireplace. Her head resting over his heart, Sara stares into the fire. Only five minutes ago she finally stopped shaking.

"What are you thinking about?" Asks Michael quietly and Sara smiles.

"About before, when you said you were going to start the fire to get us warm…?"

"What about it?"

"Well, I kinda hoped you would choose…_ another way… _to get us warm." Feeling his heart quicken its beat rapidly, Sara can't help but grin widely.

"That can still be accomplishes, Doctor." replies Michael mischievously before bringing his lips down to Sara's. "That can still be accomplishes." And her smile grows.

xxx

_Your thoughts?_


	21. Achieve or Die trying

_The very last of my drabble prompts. This one actually breaks the word limit, but I do not regret any word there. :) Enjoy!_

**Title: **Achieve or die trying

**Prompt by**** angell****_cakes**** (from )****:** Prison Break. Michael/Sara . Day on beach during S4 – frolicking and canoodling  
**Rating:** R

**Genre: **fluff, romance, het, tiny bit of angst  
**Spoilers:** Vague season 4  
**Word Count:** broken word limit - 428  
**Warnings:** A/N: Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes .

**Summary: **One perfect day for Sara and Michael to enjoy and live up completely to their liking.

**Achieve or die trying**

One day. That's all he could bargain with Self. And it was nearly enough. One day, from dusk till dawn, only he and Sara and the warm sunny weather of an LA beach. They deserved a break after all. Predominantly, _she_ deserved a break and he would make that one day worthwhile.

He didn't tell her about it, for it was a surprise. He simply nudged her from her sleep in the early hours - it was still dark outside – and answered her curious questions only with two words – _Trust me._ And God, she did.

He drove to a quiet, empty strip of the beach and took out a blanket, bathing in her bubbly laughter of surprise and enthusiasm. They watched the sunrise together, spooned upon the blanket, the heat from his body pressed against her back warming the flesh, the words whispered by his hot breath into her ear warming her heart.

Later, they went to have a bath, though they didn't have their swimsuits. Such petty things didn't matter anymore. They kissed heatedly, letting the water cool their heads and as the noon was drawing closer, they splashed and played like two little kids released in a water-park. They touched and they swam and they kissed and they laughed.

They had burritos for lunch and both loved it immensely, they laid lazily in the sun and exchanged childhood stories and little secrets with details about one another. Late afternoon, they walked the beach and Michael picked up pebbles and Sara picked up seashells and they kissed and touched some more.

They had ice-cream for dinner, then they returned to their blanket and watched the sunset together before their started to kiss anew, this time more heatedly and urgently, the boldness of their touches and kisses and caresses growing with the subsiding light.

They made love and they lay entwined together afterwards as they whispered how much they loved each other and how much they wanted this to work. _Them_ to work. Sara asked him to run away with her right then and Michael loved the idea and already started to plan how to accomplish this insane notion. And sometime in the early morning hours, they got up and kissed and drove back to the warehouse, returning to their real lives. They were changed however, for now they've got to taste the sample of the life they could one day have, and it made them work even harder, for if just the sample was this divine, the whole package must be worth to achieve or die trying.

XXX

_Your thoughts?_


	22. Guarantees

I dedicate this little fic to **mavoisine** as an early birthday present. Hope you'll like it sweetie! *squishes you tight*

"_Dread and excruciating heartache gripped his insides at the look in front of him. Sara's back turned towards him, she didn't notice his approach at all."_

**Title: **Guarantees

**Characters**: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, (little bit of Sucre, Lincoln and Mahone)

**Pairing**: Michael/Sara  
**Rating:** R (for some language)  
**Genre: **romance, het, angst (lots of angst)  
**Spoilers (!!!):** 4x12 - Selfless  
**Word Count:** approx. 2500  
**Summary: **My take on Sara's possible reaction to the news at the end of 4x12. I know we won't get to see something like this on canon, however, I do believe that the enormous pressure on Sara in this season would show eventually, and it would be with enormous force.

**Warnings:** A/N: Hasn't been betaed, so feel free to let me know if I did some heinous mistakes.

**Guarantees**

_Self..._

That one word was echoing loudly in his head, repeating over and over again. How could he be so _stupid_ and trust so easily after everything they've been through? Why on earth didn't he check the papers before they let that cocky bastard leave?

Michael's head is throbbing, pounding painfully in unison with his heartbeat, but he doesn't care. He failed. He failed them all. He guaranteed safety and freedom once the job was done and they all truly made it happen, yet at the end of the tunnel, there was no light, and definitely no safety or freedom he could guarantee.

Out of the corner of his tired mind, he heard Lincoln's fist colliding with the white board they've used numerous times during their brainstorming sessions, knocking it over. Alex was sitting at the table, mumbling away something incoherent under his breath, whereas Sucre was standing at the dirty window shield, hissing in Spanish all insults known to mankind.

Michael sighed, bringing his hands to his head, the pain more urgent and intense than ever before.

_He failed. _

Through a veil of fog clouding his mind, he could hear Sara excusing herself from the table. He wanted to stop her, reach out to her, but he had no power to do so. He pressed his long fingers against his scull, trying to control the pain and directing it somewhere – anywhere - _else_. He needed to think, he needed to focus, for surely, somebody would come for them really soon and it wouldn't be pretty.

His head turned instinctively on its own accord however, his mind subconsciously following the woman that left the table moments before. Even through his clouded mind, he watched her retreating back, the shuffling of her feet and her slumped shoulders clear evidence of her misery. And despite everything that was going on in his feverishly working mind right now, he couldn't help but notice there was something about her cramped movements that was rather pathological and highly unsettling. His concern only increased when she walked passed her boat and instead went straight for the exit of the warehouse.

Michael run his fingers over his scalp, a feeling of utter 'wrong' creeping up his chest, spreading a cold chilling sensation over his insides that felt far worse than any headache ever could. Without any further thought, Michael raised from his seat at the table, his legs carrying him out of the warehouse following in Sara's tracks on their own accord.

"Hey Pappi, where are you going?" called Sucre, who was the first one to notice his departure.

"Out." His answer cut short, he didn't even turn around.

"We don't have time for this, Michael!" shouted Lincoln, trying to reason with his brother. Something about the statement made Michael incredibly agitated and he turned on his spot, snapping.

"We _never_ have time for anything, Linc! I am sick of it! Just for once, try to come up with a solution yourself! Or - _for Christ's sake_ - give me at least five fucking minutes, will you all?!"

He didn't mean for his statement to sound the way it did, but he couldn't tell he was regretting it either. He was sick - physically as well as mentally - and he was tired of the rush and the pace things were going, as well as the whole fucking conspiracy and all of it. And though his brain screamed at him to return back and quickly find a solution – _Pronto, please!_ – for once he chose otherwise, his heart claiming five stolen minutes from a remaining time that long ago passed.

He burst the backdoor of the warehouse open, partly expecting to find Sara's slender figure bend over or pacing around one of the dock pillars.

However, she wasn't there. A slight trace of alarm has risen in his chest, his eyes scanning the area frantically for any sights of her.

He walked further into the docks, his ears catching a silent yet suspicious sound that somehow didn't fit in with the usual dockside life. He quickened his pace, a grim hunch urging his legs to go faster with every new '_bang_' that could be heard from somewhere in front of him. The sound was growing louder with each step her took, but the sight that met his eyes when he rounded the last corner made him stop dead in his tracks.

Dread and excruciating heartache gripped his insides at the look in front of him. Sara's back turned towards him, she didn't notice his approach at all. Her hand tightly squeezing a huge metal pipe, she was smashing and destroying whatever came into her reach. She was full of uncontrolled rage, literally playing havoc to a side of a small tool shed.

Again and again, she raised the pipe and smashed onto the pile of now completely destroyed objects, and although the sight made his insides twitch with the urge to close the distance at once and make her _stop_, Michael was frozen to his spot, paralyzed with horror and fear. He has never seen her loose her temper and self-control like that; _ever_.

Fury was raging through her body in powerful waves and Michael couldn't do anything but helplessly watch the tragedy unfold right in front of his eyes.

A minute later, everything was over. Sara seemed to run out of energy, stumbling at the spot panting hard, the pipe finally falling to the ground with a distinctive metal cling. Without any warning, Michael watched in horror as her legs broke underneath her, sending her slender figure fall painfully onto the hard ground. What was left of her previous fury disappeared, transforming into a pile of thrash at her feet. What was left was a broken, sobbing crock that clutching her mouth in both hands, preventing her to cry out with woe.

If Michael was shell-shocked before, this sight made his heart shatter into little pieces of sharp glass, painfully stabbing and digging into his insights.

He saw her cry on three occasions so far. One was of regret when she told him she couldn't _wait for him_, second was of fear and guilt after she shot a man trying to kill his brother, third was of sorrow and painful recollections when she showed him her scars.

This was completely different, however. This wasn't merely crying of grief, this was a full-blown-breakdown of a person whom Michael loved unconditionally.

Slowly, Michael made his way towards Sara, taking cautious step after step, until he was less then a few feet away. She was still sobbing violently, her pained moans and laments tearing Michael's heart into shreds all over again. She didn't notice him at all, she appeared to be too lost in her own inner world.

Michael was now only inches away, suddenly not sure what to do, how to approach her. He let the nature lead his course, allowing his own legs slowly breaking underneath him, bringing his slightly shaking hands to hug her from behind in the same gesture she made only an hour ago.

He knew he would startle her, yet it still made him wince when her shoulders jerked, her frame freezing in spot.

"It's _me_." whispered Michael hurriedly into her ear, as gently and reassuringly as he could. She was still frozen with shock, yet he could feel some of the fright tension leave her body.

"I didn't mean to scare you..." his voice carried quietly to her ear. "…but I didn't know how to approach you…" his tone was begging with her to understand what he felt yet his voice couldn't express. Her stiffness didn't lessen, her sobs stopping abruptly the very moment he touched her. She was panting slightly, but she didn't turn her head to look at him. Michael could tell she was terrified at the thought of him finding her here, like _this_, and he hated the invisible barrier of protectiveness for one another more than ever before.

"How long…" Sara choked out, her words barely over a whisper.

"Long enough to recognize you weren't ok at all, so please, don't lie to me." He choked the words out, his own voice trembling with emotion.

He couldn't help the sudden urge and kissed the side of her neck tenderly, then let his head drop to rest in the crook of her neck, his upper body firmly pressed against her back. His heart leaped with bittersweet joy when he felt Sara covering his hands crossed over her stomach with her own.

They stayed like that for a couple of moments, the only sounds the croaking of seagulls and their own hearts thumping against each others chest.

"You weren't supposed…" she started quietly, but he squeezed her tighter against him, shushing into her ear in a begging whimper.

"Please Sara, just for _once_, don't be concerned about my well-being and instead let me in. Please." Pleading against her neck, he felt her face and body finally starting to turn towards him. She stopped halfway, leaning her side against him, neither turning fully against him, yet nor staying with her back turned to him. It was more than he could ask for.

A heavy sight left her lungs as she squeezed her eyes taking a few deep breaths.

"There is no time for this Mi…"

"Stop." the command was quiet, yet firm. "I am sick of _time_. There _is_ time once we decide to make it, and I just took that decision because we _need_ to stop for a moment to catch our breath." Then, in a more tender voice, he added. "Don't escape me like this again, ok?"

Despite her tightly squeezed eyes, a number of big fat tears squeezed through the pressed eyelids, rolling down her cheeks. He guided his hand upwards, running it through the top of her crown and down to her neck, stroking it lightly, affectionately.

"I love you." He said and her face contorted into a painful grimace when she leaned heavily against his chest, burying her face into his shirt.

"Tell me what's wrong." He pressed ever so slightly. Of course, he knew _everything_ was more than wrong and screwed up at this point, but that was not what he was asking her and she knew. She took a few hasty, controlled breaths, then with her face still buried in his shirt

choked the words out of her in a muffled voice.

"I cannot lose you Michael…I simply…_can't_! I wouldn't survive it. I've tried, I've prayed, I've made sacrifices and pulled through _everything_ that was thrown my way, _our_ way, but it doesn't matter, because it still comes down to _nothing_!"

Her shoulders were trembling with sobs again and he hugged her tighter and pressed his cheek to the top of her head.

"We will figure it out…somehow." he started and gently tried to still her arguing headshakes with his palm. "We will!" He pressed. "And I swear to God, I will do anything, _anything_, in my might to sort out this mess. And then we go straight to the first hospital in sight, seeking treatment," he could feel her stiff against him, but he elaborated further, "and I don't know how yet, but I will make that stupid brain of mine work properly again. I promise to do _everything_ I can make it happen."

"That's not enough." She whispered quietly, her tone making him understand she wanted – _needed_ – more guarantees, and even if_ he_ couldn't give those, she would still claim them from the universe.

"It's enough. At least for keeping up my faith. _You_ are enough to keep my faith Sara." He whispered into her hair, planting a soft kiss on top of her crown.

Steps could be heard from the distance echoing through the deserted docks, three sets of feet actually, and Michael knew that his five minutes were long ago up. Still, he refused to let go. He brought his lips to her ear once again, whispering in a fierce tone.

"Now; we will stand up, together, and we will walk away from here. We will leave this place and find a temporary hideout to plan our next move, alright?" Sara still didn't move and the loud sounds of thumping feet could be heard approaching rather quickly. Their time was definitely up.

One step at a time Sara," he pleaded, "that's all I'm asking."

At last, Michael felt her head nod lightly against him and he gently grasped her forearms, bringing her up with him into a standing position, steadying her wobbly stance against him. He brought his hands to her face, guiding it slowly up to look at him.

"Are you ok?" His voice raspy, he carefully searched her eyes. She gave a series of small nods, then wiped the remaining tears staining her face off, giving a small cough. Michael smiled down at her, his eyes offering strength he knew he didn't posses.

Sara nodded again. "Ok." She sniffed, her voice hoarse and unsteady, yet quickly recovering.

At that exact moment, the trio of their companions appeared from behind a corner, duffle bags in their hands.

"We need to go. It's too dangerous to stick around for any longer." grumbled Lincoln, shoving a backpack into Michael hands.

"I packed your stuff."

Sucre stepped to a slightly startled Sara, handing her another duffle bag. "I…I packed your stuff, Doc." He was fidgeting in his spot. "I hope you don't mind….personal belonging and privacy and such…" She barely shook her head, still a bit staggered.

An unsettling thought occurred to her however.

"Wait! I need to return for something…" Before she could speak any further, Alex held up the medical bag Self procured for them a few days ago.

"Looking for this? It's all in there, I checked." said Alex, giving Sara a small smile. She was too overwhelmed by gratitude to thank him and her eyes shied away from the lot of them. All of a sudden, Sara was painfully aware of her still puffy, reddened eyes and her broken appearance. None of the guys seemed to notice, and even if they did, they certainly didn't comment on it, and Sara found herself being unimaginably grateful for that.

"Let's get out of here." Said Lincoln gruffly, and the three man turned back, making their way towards the already prepared cars. Using the very last seconds of privacy at their disposal, Michael used this moment to brush his hand against Sara, entwining their fingers together. He gave it a light squeeze and his heart leaped with joy and relief when he felt her squeeze back tightly.

They were going to be okay. They _needed_ to be ok. But before they could cross that particular river, they needed to do some things first. One step at a time. That's all it took.

_One step at a time._

XXX

_Would love to hear your thoughts. :)_


	23. Christmas Surprises

**Name:** Christmas Surprises

**Character(s) and/or pairing(s): **Michael/Sara, Lincoln Burrows, LJ Burrows

**Rating**: PG-13

**Genre(s):** Het, general, romance, fluff, angst, future fic

**Requested by: **linzi20

**Prompts**: M/S of course, but also Lincoln/Sara (general)...maybe holiday fic and/or post S4. _Bells, peppermint, home._Dude, I want my happy M/S ending. And here it is...

_**A/N: **__Written for a special person and supermom that goes by the name of Linzi. She gave a lot of wonderful prompts and I hope I used them well and to her liking. _

_E__njoy your fic Linzi, I hope it will live up to your expectations. _

_Your 'secret Santa'. ;)_

**Christmas Surprises**

Lincoln was comfortably sitting on the porch swing, surfing the internet, checking if the last Christmas parcels were already in the city so he could pick them up.

"Hey, you got a minute?" came a soft voice from behind.

Momentarily startled, Lincoln jumped and quickly turned around, slamming the laptop shut. He exhaled loudly when he realized it was only Sara standing in the back door, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands, and a ghost of a smile dancing over her lips.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"Nah, that's ok. Just checking the current status of LJ's Christmas gifts. There's less than a week until Christmas, and I really want this one to be special for him," answered Lincoln, opening the laptop anew.

"Ah, I see," she said with a knowing smile. There was something restrained in her demeanor, an uneasiness that wasn't there yesterday, and she obviously wanted to talk about it.

"But I'm finished now, so if you need anything, just name it." He shot her a charming smile, which she returned a bit hesitantly.

"Will you take a walk on the beach with me?" asked Sara, her voice tentative, and eyes guarded.

Lincoln eyed her with an amused twinkle in his eye. "You sure you've got the right brother there, Sara?" Wiggling his eyebrows at her goofily, she couldn't help but chuckle lightly.

Ever since moving to the beach house where they were all able to slowly let loose and relax - revealing a side of themselves that was never shown when they were on the run - Lincoln had turned into this chatty, joking person Sara had never imagined him to be. He was almost childish in some ways, sometimes even beating LJ in behaving like a typical teenager. Sara thought he was simply trying to catch up for all those years spent behind bars where he was restrained to do anything freely.

"Speaking of which, where's my brother?" asked Lincoln conversationally, breaking Sara's line of thoughts.

"Michael is currently occupied with wrapping presents, and we both know very well how painfully detailed he loves to be, so I guess it'll take some time for him to reappear from the bedroom." A small smile accompanied her words, yet it was the nervous twinkle in her eye that gave her away. She was unnerved, very much so, about _something_. Lincoln could tell not only from her somewhat odd behavior, but also because she kept tugging at the hem of her camisole absentmindedly, which he had learned, was never a good sign.

"Ok, just let me shut off my laptop. I'm pretty sure that if LJ gets his hands on this while I'm away, he'll check my EBay account in the blink of an eye." He winked at her conspiratorially, eliciting another small smile.

Ten minutes later, the two of them were walking along the sandy beach, Lincoln occasionally picking up a pebble and throwing it far into the ocean. They walked in silence side by side, simply enjoying the fact they _could_, without the fear of unknown dangers looming nearby, or having to check over their shoulder as a constant worry for their safety.

Lincoln shot a sideways look at Sara who seemed deep in thought. He waited, not wanting to pressure her. He would wait for her to start the talking, whenever she was ready.

A couple of minutes later, she suddenly came to a halt, throwing a quick look over her shoulder at the beach house they called home for some time less than a year now. It grew smaller with distance, yet it was still in sight. It was a quality each of them loved and enjoyed immensely - the freedom of being able to see one another, while being seen in return at all times.

Slowly dropping onto the warm sand near the water, Sara patted the space next to her in invitation. Lincoln dropped beside her, albeit a bit heavily, eyeing her in silent question. His curiosity was almost palpable, and Sara looked up into the distance, letting out a heavy sigh, then dropped her head onto her arms, comfortably resting them on her knees. Lincoln now noticed she looked rather confused and at a loss, yet he didn't have a clue as to what could be bothering her this much.

Surely, there was no problem between her and Michael. Having watched the two of them for the past couple of months, he was happily sick by the amount of love and affection the two of them expressed towards one another each and every day. Yet she was out here, with him, not his brother, and in obvious need to talk about a private, pressing matter that she wasn't willing to share with Michael. Otherwise, she wouldn't ask him to take a walk, right? Lincoln waited for a couple more moments, but when nothing came, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He lowered and flicked his head to catch her eye, finally managing to wake her from her reverie.

"Hey," he said softly, "whatever the problem is, we can solve it, alright?"

She gave a small, beaten smile. "I'm that obvious, huh?" Changing her position and crossing her legs, Sara let her hands fall into her lap, her fingers nervously playing with the sand underneath. She was obviously very hesitant to share whatever was on her mind, fighting a battle with herself, clearly losing at last. Taking a deep breath to brace herself and without looking at Lincoln, she simply declared in one quick rush, "I'm pregnant."

Lincoln took a moment to recover from the unexpected news. Finally, his lips curled into a tremendous smile. "I, uh - w - wow. I guess…well…Congratulations!"

Catching the look of disbelief and desperation on her face, Lincoln realized that might not have been the best way to approach the subject.

"Not such great news?" he tried carefully, noticing the genuine fear in Sara's eyes for the first time. She only shrugged, her eyes filling with tears that didn't fall.

"Honestly, I have no idea…" she choked out in a frantic whisper, shaking her head, panic now taking over her whole body. Lincoln's face softened. He put his hand on her shoulder a bit clumsily, trying to console her.

"Hey, I know you are probably scared right now-"

"Scared?" she cut him off, sheer disbelief coating her voice. "Lincoln, I'm _terrified_!" She turned her head back to look ahead once again. Bringing her hands to cradle her head, her face contorted into various expressions that mirrored every single emotion known to Lincoln.

She turned to him again. "It's only been less than a year since we came here, starting to rebuild who we once used to be, me and Michael all the same only getting to know each other properly. And now, just ten…eleven…months later, I'm pregnant!"

Seeing Sara in such distress, Lincoln chose to take a more subtle and reasonable approach. "Ok, let's start at the beginning, alright?" Sara gave a small nod.

"Are you sure?" asked Lincoln calmly, reaching out to touch her wrist in a soothing matter.

She closed her eyes shut. Taking a few calming breaths, she nodded. "Yes. As a doctor, I recognize all the symptoms…" she started, but when she noticed Lincoln's attempt to intervene, she hastened her explanation. "Plus, three pregnancy tests this morning confirmed my suspicions." Lincoln looked at her, nodding his head in understanding. This morning must have been a real bitch to her.

"So trust me, I'm sure," she added in a quiet voice, leaving no room for argument.

"Ok," Lincoln said slowly, running his hand over his cropped scalp, taking in the facts. "I just…well, I guess why I'm surprised is because I thought you guys were…_careful_, you know..." he added with an awkward look that actually made Sara smile a little.

"We _were _Lincoln," said Sara breathlessly, her eyes shying away in embarrassment over Lincoln's comment. Realizing he had just crossed a line, Lincoln chose to ask questions that were more…measured.

"Can you think of anything in the past month that might have…clued you in to how it…happened then?"

_Damn, this question wasn't anywhere near measured,_ thought Lincoln closing his eyes in frustration. Sara contemplated his question for a moment.

"Looking back at the past few weeks…do you remember the time I was down sick with some kind of strange flu, some six weeks ago, and I took antibiotics to help? How could I've been so _stupid_? It didn't occur to me that antibiotics messed with birth-control pills and…" without finishing the sentence as the realization dawned on her, Sara dropped her head into her hands, a groan leaving her lips.

They were quiet for a moment, then Lincoln finally spoke up, his tone careful. "Don't you want to have this baby? I mean, _any_ baby, in general."

He saw her sigh deeply. "Yes…no! I don't know." She waved her hands in the air in a gesture of despair. "It's all so confusing at the moment."

"Ok," nodded Lincoln contemplatively. "Now, let's look at the reasons why, ok?" he suggested gently, as she gave another small nod.

He was not an expert, God help him for he didn't even know if he was the right person to have such a conversation with, yet Sara obviously needed someone other than Michael to confide in with such a delicate matter. Given that there was only the four of them, she obviously didn't have that much of a choice. Thank heavens he had been in such a situation before, so many years ago with Lisa.

"Is it _you_ - your thoughts on having a child in general - or is it the thought of responsibility and commitment and insecurity? Is it the timing, or is it…," Lincoln paused for a moment, "...your past? Or is it _our_ past…Michael's and mine…I mean?"

She didn't reply at once. Her hands played with the sand, letting it slowly flow through her fingers. Then her soft answer carried to him in the salty breeze.

"I guess it's everything you mentioned combined into one huge mess," Sara said quietly, falling silent once again.

"Tell me what you're _really_ afraid of Sara," pressed Lincoln gently.

"It's too soon," she simply said. "It's too incredibly soon and unplanned and - I mean, me and Michael - we haven't even talked about a life-long commitment towards each other and I'm already _pregnant_ for God's sake..." she explained in a feeble voice.

"Do you honestly think the two of you even need to talk about life-long commitments?" The question had been serious, still yet it contained a trace of amused disbelief. Sara gave him a questioning look.

"I don't know about you Sara, but my brother doesn't think in _any_ other realms other than a life-long commitment with you. Even further – which honestly scares me a bit at times - is that for Michael, it's either you, or no one."

The conversation drifted to different waters of unpleasant remembrance for Lincoln, yet he continued, crucially needing Sara to understand what she truly meant to his brother.

"Some of my absolutely worst memories go back at the time when you were…'_missing'_…and Michael was in Sona. When I had to tell him you were…_dead…_in a way, it killed him too. Everything changed, afterwards. _Michael_ changed, Sara. And I'm not telling you this to open up old wounds, God knows you don't need that right now, but I want you to understand one thing about Michael. He often doesn't see any shades of grey, especially when it comes to people who matter to him. It's black or white. And for Michael, he only has _one_ brother, _one_ nephew and _one _woman he loves."

Lincoln averted his gaze, squinting into the sun momentarily, his eyes glassing over. He continued. "If you're worried about how Michael will react, then you might as well drop the subject, 'cause I already know the answer to that."

"I know he loves me," Sara said in a quiet voice. "And God knows I love him just as much. But having a child, together, I'm not sure we're ready for that just yet..."

"Are you now talking about Michael, or yourself?" asked Lincoln, eyeing Sara carefully.

"I want this to work," she whispered in a tiny voice. "I want us - Michael and I - to work. I _need_ us to work. And this is just a new, huge step to take and I'm afraid of what will happen if we can't."

She licked her lips nervously before she continued, "My mom and dad…they had everything they needed to raise a child properly, and yet they didn't. I mean, I don't want to blame them for screwing up my life, I know that _I'm_ completely responsible for that, but they…they didn't make it any easier, you know? Fighting ever since I was little, mom drinking herself into oblivion, dad always missing out on my life to 'chase justice'…" She gave a little sad snort, her last words laced with a fair amount of sarcasm. "If it didn't work out for them, why would it work out for _us_?" She shot Lincoln a look full of despair before she continued, "Just look at us, Lincoln. Michael is still being eaten alive by guilt for everything that happened. I know it's lessening with time, but it's a slow, healing process."

Her voice was shaking now, "and me? I'm a recovering addict who relapsed after hitting the first bump on the road. Don't you see a pattern there?" She was truly scared now, lips pursed in an attempt to stop the tears from falling.

Lincoln sighed heavily, looking into the distance. "No I don't," he said earnestly. Turning his head towards Sara and catching her doubtful look, he continued, "and I am not saying this only to comfort you, I really mean it. I don't know about your parents - or ours - for that matter, but what you have with Michael, that's special. And if you two can't pull it off, I don't know who else can," he sighed. This conversation was getting out of hand, but he tried anyway, quickly deciding to open up the very last can on worms.

"A child can only make him happier Sara. I know there are still many unresolved issues, but if you think that this might in some way shake or…'disrupt'…your relationship with my brother , then I think you don't get the whole picture. Sure, you're right that it may be way too soon for you to start a family together, but whether it's in a scope of a few months or a couple of years, to Michael, it doesn't matter. Because creating a family, that's his ultimate goal in what he could have with you. And knowing how crappy both your childhoods were, he'll work twice as hard to not repeat the same mistakes our parents did."

Lincoln fell silent, eyeing Sara carefully. He had no idea what impact his words might have had on her. He was never a talker, let alone an eloquent guy. He was known for being short and rough with his fists as well as his words, yet this was something else. This was about family, and obviously, the mother of his soon-to-be nephew or niece, and he couldn't afford to mess this up merely due to being short on words.

"If this is a question of fear of rejection from Michael, then there's nothing to worry about. The important question here is what _you_ want, Sara." finished Lincoln, trying to make his voice as gentle and caring as possible, because God help him, he knew he was navigating through a mine field almost blindfolded. The ball was now in her court.

"I only know that if I ever had a child, I would wish it to be with your brother. It's not _him_ that I question," uttered Sara quietly, finally looking at Lincoln. He could see she was starting to give in to the idea, albeit very slowly. However, although the immediate fear was gone, Sara was still showing a great deal of uneasiness and obvious self-doubt. She exhaled deeply, running her fingers through her hair.

"I guess there never is a '_just the_ _right'_ moment, is there?" she asked, and Lincoln smirked, shaking his head, "Nope."

"Well, one thing's for sure. The more I think about this," her eyes came to rest upon her flat stomach, "the more _right_ it feels." She stopped talking and looked into Lincoln's eyes, her face finally lightening up into a tentative smile.

"Well, it's not like there can be done much about it now, is there?" shrugged Sara with quiet resignation, though her growing smile gave her away.

"What the hell, we're doing it," she said at last in a voice that showed a fair portion of bravado she wasn't truly feeling just yet. But for the first time that morning, her face lit up with a genuine smile. "Besides," she whispered to Lincoln conspiratorially, "I am way too curious to see Michael Scofield deal with a toddler." She gave Lincoln a wink and watched him grin in return.

After a couple of moments, her face grew nervous once again. "I guess all I'm scared of now is his reaction." She stopped Lincoln with a silencing gesture when he wanted to intervene. "Lincoln, I know you think there isn't going to be a problem with Michael about this, but still. It's a completely new situation for both of us. We never even talked about if either of us ever wanted children, and now, the matter has been…decided. I guess that's the part that scares me most."

Lincoln smiled kindly, shaking his head, "Always planning, you and my brother. Why can't you ever leave anything up to faith?" he asked, his eyes challenging her answer good-naturedly.

"Because faith is tricky and can bite you right in the ass," replied Sara, this time more playfully.

Lincoln laughed. "Yeah well, that sure as hell can happen."

They shared a quiet moment together, reveling in their new secret, before Lincoln finally broke the spell.

"Well, I guess – _hope_ - that 'congratulations' is in order now, because I'm finally going to become an uncle, right?" grinned Lincoln widely, a mischievous twinkle lighting his eyes as Sara returned his smile tenfold.

"Yeah, I guess that's a 'yes' and yes, you are indeed."

Lincoln couldn't withhold himself any longer and crushed Sara in a bear hug. She was momentarily surprised, then relaxed into his frame and brought her arms to rest around his back. His touch was strangely familiar, as well as completely different from his brother's at the same time.

"Thank you so much, Lincoln," Sara mumbled in his ear, her voice bathed in emotion. "You are going to make a wonderful uncle."

"Anytime Sara," uttered Lincoln kindly. "Oh, and can I ask a favor?" he added, mischief crossing his features.

"Sure, why not," Sara chuckled.

"Don't tell him until Christmas, alright? Let it be a Christmas surprise," he said enthusiastically. Sara eyed him questioningly searching his eyes for a reason. His features softened. "I want you to...just...give yourself some time to get accustomed to the thought of becoming a mother soon. Then give my brother the best Christmas present he's ever gotten."

With an undeniable look of mock smugness, he couldn't help but add a last remark. "Except a trip to the local ER to get three stitches on his chin after I shoved him into the Christmas tree when he was seven, for eating the last Peppermint candy."

Sara looked at him for a moment, giving Lincoln an incredulous look before she burst into laughter, shaking her head in disbelief. "You are so mean, Lincoln Burrows! So - _so -_ mean! But it's a deal."

xxx

A week later on Christmas Eve, they all shared a pleasant home-cooked dinner. Even before the evening stretched to ten o'clock, Sara already excused herself rather early for bed. With the promise of joining her soon, Michael watched her retreating form a bit worriedly.

"She seems so tired recently," he later said to Lincoln, his eyes still glued to the bedroom door Sara disappeared behind, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Nah, she just had a lot to do, arranging a wonderful Christmas for us all," reassured Lincoln, waving his hand in dismissal while walking over to the fridge and taking a bottle of beer.

"You want one?" he asked Michael, who shook his head.

"Jeez dad, it's Christmas Eve!" exclaimed LJ with outrage, his broad smile however, betraying him.

"Exactly! I am having a toast to…err…Jesus and his folks…err…and then the cattle in the barn and those three guys who I never really got who they were supposed to be…" said Lincoln, watching in amusement when Michael turned his head with a disbelieving sigh, swallowing Lincoln's bait of playing dumb-ass in order to get his younger brother's attention.

"Those were three prophets, sometimes referred to as three kings from the East, Lincoln. They brought gifts to baby Jesus, recognizing him as the new messiah."

Lincoln merely smiled. "Funny you know. Talking about baby Jesus and all…anyway, goodnight guys, I'm going straight to bed. Don't want to see that poor fat guy in the red costume stuffing his huge ass down our chimney." Without any further ado, Lincoln made his way towards his bedroom, turning around in the process to call to his son.

"Oh and LJ, you should come too. Give yourself at least a few hours of sleep before you wake up at midnight behaving like a kid on a sugar high and start to open all your presents."

LJ merely grinned and got up. "You know me too well, dad."

"I do. But just so you know LJ, this year, you're going to have some serious competition," Lincoln chuckled, ruffling his son's hair as he passed by.

"We'll see about that!" called LJ cheerily before shutting the door of his bedroom.

"What did you mean by that, Linc?" asked Michael thoughtfully when the teenager was gone.

"By what?"

"By saying it was funny to talk about 'baby Jesus and all'..." Michael gave his brother a questioning look.

Lincoln grinned like a sly cat at the look of confusion on Michael's face. "You'll find out soon enough. Now go get some sleep. It's Christmas day soon, the time for love and family and gifts and surprises…" he recited in a sing-song voice, enjoying himself immensely. Michael eyed him suspiciously and Lincoln couldn't help but burst out with laughter upon imagining the tiny bolts and wheels in Michael's head going into overdrive, with little success in deciphering the encrypted message hidden in Lincoln's words.

Lincoln smiled and cheerfully chimed the tiny Christmas bells hanging together with some mistletoe over the kitchen door. It was Michael's idea, claiming it to be part of the Christmas tradition, although Lincoln strongly suspected Michael hung it only to get the opportunity to kiss Sara freely whenever she passed beneath it. God only knew she walked in and out of the room more frequently than ever before.

"Merry Christmas Michael," Lincoln called softly in a kind voice before finally retreating to his room, leaving a bewildered Michael to make his way to the bedroom he shared with Sara.

xxx

Something was nudging Michael awake, bringing his deep-sleeping consciousness to a light slumber, and then into a groggy waking state. Now sufficiently awake to recognize the source of the disturbance of his well-deserved sleep, he smiled lazily before opening his eyes to two hazel orbs shining to the dim light of one small lamp sitting on the side table.

"Hey," Sara whispered, giving Michael a soft kiss on the lips. His smile grew.

"Hey yourself," answered Michael in a husky voice. "What's the occasion?" He asked with slightly raised eyebrows, eyes laughing with joy.

"It's Christmas," Said Sara mischievously and Michael glanced at the clock on the night table.

_Precisely midnight._

His smile grew wider and he refocused his vision on Sara again. She looked more excited and - _what was that? Expectation?- _than he had ever seen her before.

"I didn't know you were this enthusiastic about Christmas, Doctor Tancredi," Michael said playfully.

"Well, it depends on who you get to spend your Christmas with, Mr. Scofield," she shot back in a matching tone, her eyes shining happily. Michael felt his breath catch in his throat._ God, he loved her so much._

Lifting his hands to the sides of her face, he brought their heads closer, resting his forehead against hers, nuzzling her nose with his lovingly.

"Merry Christmas Sara," he uttered in a low, husky voice full of undeniable affection.

Sara smiled. "Merry Christmas Michael," she replied with as much emotion, closing her eyes and relishing the moment in every possible way before she dropped the bombshell.

"I have something for you," she whispered when she opened her eyes at last. "A present. I want you to have it now."

Michael noted a trace of nervousness and anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes. He smiled at her encouragingly. "Whatever it is, I know I'm gonna love it," he said earnestly, watching Sara withdrawing a bit in order to present a small box to him.

Michael gave a small whistle. "Doctor Tancredi, I hope you are not about to propose to me!" he said in a playful tone when his eyes fell on a rather small, wrapped box the size of a Rubik's Cube, with a bow resting on top.

"Actually, I think it might be a little more than that," she said in all seriousness. Her anticipation and anxiety were almost palpable now. Michael gave her a puzzled look, his own pulse quickening.

Although a patient man, Michael couldn't help but quickly unwrap the paper and open the lid to see what was inside that could make his whole insides twitch with strange anticipation.

There, on a tiny cushion, lay a baby pacifier. Michael stared at the object for a moment as he made the connection. His eyes raced quickly to meet Sara's, widening at the silent affirmation he saw in the dark amber pools.

"Say it," he whispered. "Say it out aloud, please," he pleaded again in a whisper, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I'm pregnant Michael. We're having a baby."

Michael stared. At the moment, that was all he could do. His completely still features gave nothing away of the turmoil that was currently raging in his mind and heart. It was a simple fact, yet there was so much to process.

_He – Sara - a baby - a child - a human being – soon – perfect – love – fright – no Company – fresh beginning - his own father - himself becoming a father soon - of a baby with Sara - God with Sara - after everything they've been through - wait…they didn't have any spare room left in the house - the house needed rearrangements - how much time did they have? - how far along was she? – when did she find out? - she would make a wonderful mother, that's for sure - what kind of father will he make? - he loves her – and they are going to be parents – together – figure this out together… _

"Michael, please talk to me." Her quiet, pleading voice brought him back down to earth with crushing speed. Only now did he truly see behind the curtain of his flashing thoughts. Sara was still looking at him, yet her face was now stricken with worry, her eyes glazed and starting to fill with tears.

Without thinking, his hands worked of their own volition. He gently took her face and brought it close to his.

"I love you Sara." That was the last thing Michael said before his lips crushed hers in a fierce kiss.

He felt her tears falling at last with relief, could taste them within his mouth. _How could she have thought_ _he would be upset?_

"I love you so much," his voice breaking, he saw her release a shuddering breath. Then her eyes were open again, this time filled with tears of happiness. She gave a small smile through her wet eyes, and he beamed at her in return. Both of them were breathing hard, both too excited to stop their hearts from beating twice as fast as normal. For a moment, they simply held each other.

"Wow," said Michael at last, still dumbstruck with shock. "We're having a baby." He repeated her previous statement in an almost reverent tone.

"I know," she whispered back, her awed tone matching his.

"I mean…_how_?" He said, giving an amazed chuckle.

"I think we both know _how _Michael," said Sara, giving him a small smile. "But a more eloquent answer to your question is that the use of antibiotics lessens the effectiveness of the pill. Something I should have realized…"

"_We_ should have realized," corrected Michael gently, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. Sara's eyes shied away in slight embarrassment. "So that makes…" said Michael, quickly doing the math, "…about seven weeks, right?"

The accuracy of his memory never ceased to amaze her, "Exactly."

Michael gave a proud grin, yet his features quickly turned curious once again. "How long have you known?"

"A week," she admitted, with a hint of worry.

"A _week_?" he repeated incredulously, eyes widening.

"I wanted it to be a surprise," she quickly explained, but Michael merely smiled and shook his head in disbelief.

"And some surprise it is!" He let out a chuckle, catching her lips once again. Suddenly, a more serious veil covered his features and he withdrew slightly, looking Sara in the eyes.

"Wait, I never even asked…are_ you_ ok with…this?" His eyes searched hers.

"Well, I admit I was pretty shocked once I found out." She let out a deep breath that ended in a small chuckle. "But I am more than _ok_ with it by now. Actually, I am kinda thrilled." The sincerity of the words burned in her eyes, her whole face beaming.

Michael smiled and quickly closed his arms around her, holding her close despite her playful attempts to get away from his grasp. His mouth stilled at the side of her head, allowing him to kiss her temple.

"Can I see?" He whispered excitedly right into her ear, his voice filled with an almost childish zeal.

Sara couldn't help but smile broadly. "Michael, there is nothing to see yet," she answered gently, yet she untangled herself from his warm body and pushed the covers down, revealing her camisole-clad stomach. She lifted the hem, watching Michael as he moved his hand carefully, almost hesitantly, along her flat stomach.

"Hey buddy. This is your daddy," he said softly and Sara burst out in laughter at his silliness, although her heart was swelling at the amount of emotion in Michael's voice. He continued nevertheless, this time in an even more playful tone. "You and me, we've got much to talk about."

Sara burst out with laughter. "Michael, you are being silly."

"I know. And I don't care."

"And _I_ don't mind," said Sara quietly, a huge smile still dancing upon her lips. "Just promise me you won't talk to that baby more often than you do to _me_ from now on."

"Sara, you cannot possibly make me choose between you and our child." He gave her a boyish grin that was almost too much for Sara, and she seized Michael by his arms and drew him upwards towards her once again.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Sara."

They snuggled closely together, laying still for a couple of moments. After a while, Sara's voice, mischievous once again, rang through the bedroom.

"Now show me _your_ present, Scofield."

_One year later..._

"I cannot believe it's Christmas time already. Seems like only yesterday we became pregnant…" said Michael, peering out of the hammock at the infant sleeping in a tiny secure hammock of his own – Lincoln's last Christmas gift to them.

Sara raised her eyebrows at him skeptically. "'_We'_ Michael? I don't recall you having to endure thirty hours of painful labor."

"Ouch Sara, that _hurt_. I was there too, remember?"

"Vividly," answered Sara dryly, though her spreading grin was starting to give her away. "You spent the first ten hours fussing over me like a mother hen, making sure I was comfortable and hydrated and 'warm yet not too warm', comfortable and 'resting', as if I could rest while having contractions. The next ten hours, you cracked bad jokes in an attempt to cheer me up. And the last ten hours you annoyed as well as freaked the hell out of me with your constant nagging that 'Wilfred Scofield' was a beautiful name. And I even believed that you meant it then, my bad!"

"Yeah, but you were so freaked I would insist on that name that you forgot all about your fears of labor, right?" Sara merely wriggled her nose in response.

"And it was worth it, right?" asked Michael, looking at the sleeping infant lovingly, while his lips caressed the top of Sara's head affectionately.

"Every second of it," she replied in a whisper, her voice instantly softening. "Still, I can't believe I now have four guys on my hands to deal with."

Michael smirked. "It's the great Scofield-Burrows genes."

Sara only snorted. "The next one is going to be a girl, Scofield, mark my words!"

END

_Would love to hear your thoughts. :)_


	24. Painfully Numb

**Name: **Painfully numb

**Author**: lizparker6

**Characters**: Michael/Sara

**Rating**: R (for language)

**Genre**: angst, romance, darkfic

**Spoilers**: vague for the end of 4x16

**Word count:** approx.1200 words

**Painfully numb**

Her body feels numb while her soul feels lonely, extremely and incredibly lonely. Like she is the very last person on Earth, like that time after her mother died and her father couldn't care less.

However, today is the level and intensity of the pain far less bearable and she is far more fragile than she's ever been. And this time, time won't heal all her wounds.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Promises were made, some went broken and some were reanimated once again. Despite or maybe exactly because of this, she can't help but feel cheated, because the rules changed several times significantly and excruciatingly quickly, all happening once _after_ she joined this game, never asking for her consent.

Tonight, she sits at the edge of the bathtub – _yes, a fucking bathtub_ – in a small filthy bathroom of an accordingly filthy room they rented for the night. The main room is dark, the lights out, and from the double bed, the sounds of Michael's quiet snoring are being carried her way. She raises her head and her eyes narrow when she focuses her eyes directly at the only source of light shining above her head. The bulb is flimsy and the uneven flicking of electricity suddenly irritates her so she looks away.

A big lump starts to form in her throat and she knows it won't be long before the tears come and spill over the edges of her eyes, the same way they did yesterday and the day before that. She knows it's only a partial - and probably also a rather pathetic - way of how to let go and ease the pain she feels inside into numbness.

She is extremely tired, the eyelids painfully pressing onto her eyes in an attempt to close despite her battle to keep them open. She knows she should get as much sleep as she can get, yet she knows that until this is over - this ritual that recently became sort of her bedtime-manner - she won't be able to rest. She can feel every nerve, every fiber and every muscle of her body, _her every single cell_, hum with tenseness and unnatural, adrenalin-induced energy.

Every day, they risk their life. Every day – _every fucking one_ - she acquires a deep scratch, a future scar, or a new bruise. She goes with it without complaining. There would be no point. He's already made up his mind, '_he will finish this_', with or without her. It seems like he doesn't care if this pursuit of this by now pointless 'justice' - or whatever noble name he may call it - destroys them along the way as well.

Every night, they find some smelly hotel they rent for the night and Michael crashes onto the bed the minute the door shuts behind them. He is tired, always so tired, still not fit for any serious exercise yet, not to mention the stunts he is pulling on everyday basis. All her warnings, all her worries and pleas to slow down fall on deaf ears and he wakes up every morning to a new day both of them know will be full of danger and risking their lives.

Last night, he gave her a kiss on the forehead, in passing and while at the same time drying his wet scalp with a towel after the shower he had just finished. Sara was out to get some food and when she came back, he graced her with a tired, thankful smile. Crossing the room and taking the bags from her hands, he planted a kiss onto the heated skin of her forehead. It was far from romantic or particularly affectionate, merely an expression of gratitude. And yet, it was the most intimate gesture Michael made towards her in the span of the past few days. Already being used - yet still pained by - to his rather cold, quiet demeanor, the simple kiss stirred something inside of her that she didn't feel in quite some time anymore and the simple realization of that almost made her weep with sorrow and regret.

Whatever she does, however hard she tries, it like it all doesn't make any difference. _She_ doesn't make any difference, her_ presence_ in his life doesn't make any difference. And it hurts more than any whip ever could.

If she didn't know better, she would believe to be a burden to him, rather than an asset.

Where did the love that once brought her through a series of days filled with insane torture and pain disappear? Where was the passion once present in his eyes while he kissed her on the train to Chicago? Where was the desperate devotion that caused him to take the blame for her in Panama? Where was the gentle worry he showed her while holding her tight to him the first night after their tearful reunion?

The tears spill at last. She hugs herself and quietly sobs despite the door to the room being fully open. She knows by now that Michael is a deep sleeper and won't be waking at the sound of her muffled sobs. At least, so far, he never did.

Every night, they climb into bed together and Sara smiles at him pretending everything is ok when nothing really is, waiting until he falls asleep beside her.

Every night, he says '_good night_' and she knows it will once again be a terrible one. It's not self-pity that's going on each day in another foreign bathroom. It's just her way – the only she knows at the moment - to get rid of the stress and pain and worry and loneliness and fear and rush that gathered inside her throughout the events of the day. She cries in order to keep her sanity alive, albeit very weak.

Somebody once said that when in a difficult situation, you shall try to live in so called 'day-to-day compartments', for there is nothing one person cannot endure in the course of a single day. This way, you can survive day by day until it's over. Sara wonders how much longer it will take to refute this hypothesis and she finally breaks.

Every night, she thinks this is it, the end, the very last drop. There is nothing else to give, she is spend to the brim, empty and sore. She has no faith left, cannot see the chimera of the bright future they could once have anymore, regardless if they succeed or not.

Every night, Sara cries in the bathroom of a nameless motel for hours before she stumbles through the darkness to the bed completely drained, her supposed 'happy ending' deeply asleep on his side of the bed, oblivious of her daily struggle for air in her lungs.

Every night, Sara thinks she won't make it back to their bed, believing to collapse somewhere between the bathroom and the mattress. She never does.

Every night, she slips under the covers soundlessly, feeling Michael stir slightly and drape a hand around her waist almost automatically. Before, it used to be a gesture that made her feel secure, and loved. By now however, it only seems like an empty and lame pretense of having something Sara is afraid they've already lost.

Every night, Michael Scofield drowsily murmurs the same question into her ear, "_Are you ok?_", only not to remember any of it in the morning.

Every night, Sara's answer is the same, the lie leaving her lips in a soft whisper. "_Yes,_" and she almost believes it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_yOUR thoughts?_


	25. Every Morning

**Name: **Every Morning...

**Author**: lizparker6

**Characters**: Michael/Sara

**Rating**: R (for language)

**Genre**: angst, romance, darkfic

**Spoilers**: vague for the end of 4x16, speculations for further episodes

**Word count:** approx.1330 words

**Summary: **_A continuation piece to my other story __**Painfully Numb **__(Sara's POV on Michael's coldness and distance from her at the end of 4x16), for many ppl asked for a a Michael POV of the events. So here it is._

**Every Morning…**

Every Morning, Michael Scofield wakes to his 'dream-come-true'. And for the first six seconds of this moment, he stays blissfully oblivious to the fact to be still dreaming, albeit being awake.

Long and dark hair that smells of wild flowers graces the pillow next to his own, a beautiful face with alabaster skin peacefully resting to his side. The woman he loves so much it scares him being still immersed deep in her dreams, he steals five wonderfully long and painfully short minutes to just…admire her.

Every morning, Michael Scofield wakes up to a sleeping beauty at his side. And every morning, he lies in their shared bed motionlessly, simply enjoying feeling as close to another human being as possible, feeling so _alive_.

Every morning, the first half of this precious time he spends relishing in the proximity of Sara, and it always gives him the strength he thought to have lost a long time ago.

Every morning however, he spends the second half of these five bittersweet minutes by feeling utmost doubt and sorrow and regret and inevitably, a terrible sense of guilt.

One of the reasons is that not too long after waking, Michael starts to notice the first deep cracks in this perfect morning picture. This being however cherished and irresistible to believe to be true, it is unfortunately also cruelly deceitful and not '_real'_.

His sleeping beauty's sleep isn't nearly as peaceful as he would wish, her forehead occasionally wrinkling, indicating worry, fear or grief being present in her morning dreams. His eyes then travel further, by now observing her almost obsessively, seeking new injuries and other signs of abuse she daily has to suffer at his side and yet still tries to hide from him.

Every morning Michael observes with a tight lump in his throat, how the dark circles under her eyes darken and spread with each passing day, the old wrinkles of her forehead deepen while the new start to form.

Every morning, Michael is painfully torn into two halves. He is unutterably grateful for the gift of another day with her at his side, but at the same time he hates himself for thinking this way.

Never before believing to be a selfish person, each morning Michael is proven wrong and declared guilty for being the most selfish person ever walking the face of earth.

He loves her - he _needs_ her - in a way he doesn't need anybody else in this world. She is essential to him, essential to his very survival. And yet he is wiling to risks her life every damned day in order to pursue a goal he and he alone set in front of the both of them.

As a result of this, every morning there is a new bruise, a new scar, a new piece of evidence to his selfishness either burned or cut into her delicate flesh and skin. And these will never be removed from her like his tattoos were from him. He knows only too well that this kind of injury stays with you for the rest of your life, a constant companion and reminder of your past, a shadow staining your soul.

Every single morning, Michael Scofield has to have a fierce fight with himself not to break the promise he once gave her, that he would never leave her behind and they would finish this _together_.

'_She would be better of without him__,'_ he thinks, if he didn't know better by now.

Indeed he does. Even the sheer memory of the time – _all_ of the times - they were involuntarily separated sickens him. Her front is facing him so there is no way he can get a view of her scars, but he doesn't have to see them to remember they are there. The image and _feel_ of them is still burned into the very front of his mind.

Each morning, for a fraction of a second – the moment between just regaining consciousness and opening ones eyes - Michael wakes with an excruciating feeling of dread, convinced that today's the day when he opens his eyes and Sara isn't there anymore.

He knows he couldn't blame her if she'd leave – _God, he never ever could blame her for anything – _and yet, he knows that losing her - even over a 'noble' cause of serving justice to those who once ruined all of their lives - would hurt more than he could ever bear.

But every morning - despite his fears - he finds her there, willingly staying just within his reach, and Michael despises himself for feeling an enormous amount of relief and happiness every single time he find her present.

They are still together and alive, and how this is possible always awes him before he mentally berates himself, for he knows _them_ isn't about luck or coincidence anymore. It's about devotion and sacrifice and hard work for little reward, and with a deep sinking feeling of shame, every morning, Michael realizes he can't take any credit for that.

Since from the beginning, it's been _her_ sacrifice, _her_ heartache, _her_ self-denial, _her_ selflessness and _her_ generosity that kept them together up until now.

True, his tumor made things worse, made _him_ worse, made him say things he would eagerly take back now if he got the chance. He won't. Besides, Michael knows very well he can't put all the blame at his illness either.

_He_ pushes her away, not some malicious mass in his brain that's been removed a couple of weeks ago. He pushes her away and she is in pain because of that, he knows that too. There is a reason he behaves like this but it can never justify the way he is treating her. He can only pray that he will one day get the chance to explain to her.

Every morning, Michael Scofield wakes up to another internal struggle between his mind, telling him what he has to do, and his heart, telling him what he _wants_ to do. His mind naturally wants him to stop the company, once and for all, not trying to rebuild their lives until then. His heart however, begs him to stop and look around properly for a moments, to see and realize that his actions will sooner rather than later leave irreparable damage to his relationship to Sara if he keeps on to put off the needs of the only woman he ever loved.

Every morning, his mind wins in the end while his heart bleeds. He is too afraid to let go, is too afraid that once he gets a glimpse of a _'real together'_, he won't be able to regain his focus on anything else, wanting more and more and more of _them_. He withdraws himself from her for the fear of abandoning his goal once he truly engages into…_her_.

And that's not his only fear. Yesterday, when he gave her a fleeting kiss on the forehead in a simple gesture of gratitude as well as affection after she brought food while he was taking a shower, she tensed.

She _tensed_.

He could feel it rather than see, it was so strong it was almost palpable in the small room. She tensed and he was scared – shitless - of the true reason why she flinched in the first place.

He was scared that maybe it was too late for him to start repairing what he had damaged. Maybe he has already broken them apart for good. And Michael was never more terrified to be correct ever before.

Every morning, Michael Scofield wakes up and steals five magnificent moments of sixty seconds, simply indulging in observing his loved one.

Every morning, it gets harder to withdraw his eyes and clear his throat indicating he is about to wake her, whispering softly into her ear.

And every morning - he realizes with dismay – it takes him longer to wake her up.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Sat__isfied, you pokers-for-part-two? ;)_


	26. Ghosts of the past

_Because __mavoisine_ _ won the who-comments-first-on-this-post-with-a-Michael/Sara-plot-bunny-gets-a-free-drabble-fic. :) Well, it's by no means a drabble, well, ya know me though. I am not good with too little words…. ;) _

_Sorry, was scribbled rather hastily and hasn't been beta-ed, feel free to point any mistakes to me. :)_

**Story name**: Ghosts of the past

**Characters**: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Gretchen Morgan, _and somebody else….;)_

**Pairing**: Michael/Sara

**Genre**: future fic, het, angst, general

**Length**: approx. 1500 words

**Spoilers**: none, a future, post-series fic, purely my fantasy

**Summary**: _So…Nicole's plot bunny prompt was this: _**_Sara/Michael meet Gretchen when everything is over. _**_I hope you will like this__, hunny, although it's most probably quite different fron what you've expected. Well, the original plan WAS kinda different, but ya know, then I started to write and it turned out quite differently in the end... *sheepish smile*_

*hugs you all my dear flist, have missed you like WHOA!*

**Ghosts of the past**

The Starbucks is unusually full and the sight of the long queue ahead of them causes Michael to send his two favorite girls to sit at the table while he gets the drinks. Their little sweetheart is getting heavier with each passing day, and although Sara would never admit it, carrying the excited toddler around the park for the past two hours up on her arms was more than exhausting.

Feeling the tired muscles of her arms and legs relax the second her bottom hits the chair, Sara carefully positions the 6-month old baby in her lap before sending Michael an appreciative smile. Turning her head to observe the various customers, she spots a beautiful young girl waiting with a woman patiently at the top of the queue, and Sara cannot help but wonder with a smile what _their_ daughter will look at that age.

Finally receiving their order, the girl turns happily, an ice-cream in her hand, while the blond woman – probably her mother – pays at the counter with her back turned to Sara.

Looking into the girl's face, Sara is surprised to be met by a beautiful pair of sky-blue eyes, bright and curious, and sparkling with an innocence only a child can posses. Of course apart from one single adult Sara knows, a person with just as incredible eyes. Luckily enough, those eyes belong to her child's father.

Sara sends the girl a warm smile, and the girl cheerily returns the gesture. Spotting the baby in Sara's arms, the girl starts to approach them slowly, curiosity mixed with coyness slowing down her eager steps. As an encouragement, Sara lifts the baby in her arms slightly, directing her daughter's face towards the girl.

"She's cute," utters the girl quietly with a shy smile dancing over her lips, her ice-cream momentarily forgotten and melting in her hand, trickling through her fingers. Then, remembering her promise not to wander off, she turns around and searches the crowd for her adult companion. "Auntie, auntie!" she calls, "Come and look what a cute baby!"

It's only then the woman with blond hair turns her head and the sight of her causes Sara's smile to freeze on her lips, disbelief and shock contorting her face. The blonde at the counter seems to be frozen as well, a pair of big blue – cold and all too familiar – eyes staring right at Sara. The girl calls her again and it's only then she unglues from the counter, slowly – almost felinely - making her way to Sara's table, her eyes secretly scanning the crowd for Sara's company. On instinct, Sara jerks on her chair backwards, the sudden movement causing the chair to make a nasty screeching noise that gets lost in the buzz of the full room.

Blood thumping in her ears, Sara is still wide-eyed with shock when the woman reaches the table, putting a hand on the girls shoulder, her eyes never leaving Sara.

All Sara can do is feel her heart frantically fluttering in her chest, her body and mind frozen while her mind being in panic.

_"This is simply **not** happening, there is no way she could be here!"_

And yet, although with changed hair-color, Sara just _knows_ she is looking into the face of her former torturer. She is not breathing, Sara realizes only then, yet she cannot do anything to help her lungs finding her breath again. The situation is so surreal - so _bizarre_ _–_ she is unable to cope with it, nor come up with any coherent thought.

Sensing her mother's enormous distress, the baby starts to fuzz and fidget in her arms, a soft cry escaping the infant's lips. It's only then Sara realizes with horror she is not alone anymore but has, in fact, a child – _her own child_ - in one and the same room with a person who, for a long time, used to haunt her dreams. Acting upon an instinct only a mother understands, she hugs her daughter tighter to her chest, all kinds of irrational ideas how to make a possible escape already flashing in front of her frantic mind - flee or fight, but at no cost let your child be harmed in any way.

The girl with dark hair wrinkles her forehead in confusion at the suddenly odd behavior of the lady sitting at the table, then shoots a questioning look at her aunt over her shoulder.

"Let's go, Emily," says the former agent quietly, turning the girl around and starting to walk away. The girl flashes a last curious look at Sara before walking away. Sara is still cradling her daughter protectively to her chest, eyes distant as well as alert at the same time.

Sara sits there for what feels like an eternity. Gretchen and her _niece_ disappeared into the busy crowd a long time ago, yet she cannot bring herself to move, to act, nor as much as whimper. It's only her daughter's cries, getting louder with each drawn breath, that manage to snap her back into reality. With a stab of guilt, Sara gently starts to rock and mollify the upset infant.

She slowly starts to recover from the shock of seeing two completely different worlds colliding – two worlds she never thought could mix in any way. The horrible past she so desperately wanted to forget clashing into her present, Sara is left with a horrible chilly feeling, as if an icy crust has been stretched all over her body. The only source of light and warmth, she realizes, is the feel of her daughters body tightly pressed against her chest.

Slowly, Sara looks down at her child, already settled down by her mother's comforting strokes and murmurs, currently trying to snuggle ever deeper into her loving embrace. A sudden painful thought occurs to Sara, a feeling of dread spreading across her chest, almost shattering her heart. She remembers how she once used to be so incredibly close to death - or the loss of Michael, which would be just as same as being dead herself – and with these thoughts comes the realization that if anything – _any tiny detail whatsoever_ - had gone differently, this miracle of life she is currently holding in her arms would never be born. And the heaviness of such a simple truth almost crushes her.

She starts to plant little soft kisses to the baby's soft curly hair, all the same lovingly stroking her daughter's back in a manner she knows to be soothing. Focusing solely on the bundle of joy in her arms, Sara realizes it's their child that is the most eloquent evidence of their survival and their fresh start, _a new life_ - hers and Michaels – they created together.

A stuffy Panamanian makeshift prison all of a sudden seems too far away, a vicious Company agent called Gretchen only a fading memory of a part of her past that somehow doesn't fit into this life anymore.

A hand touched her shoulder softly, and Michael's familiar frame slips into the chair next to hers, placing two steaming coffee cups on the table in front of her. His huge grin fades when he casts a closer look at her sheet-white face however. Without a word, he takes her free hand into his, surprised at how cold it feels.

"Hey, is everything alright?" he asks, worry lacing his voice. She nods in affirmation, a breath she didn't know she was holding leaving her lungs in a rush.

"You look like you've seen a ghost…" utters Michael with concern, his eyes searching her face for possible explanation to her sudden change of mood. Ironically, his apt remark actually brings a sad smile to her lips; _" If he only knew what kind of "ghost" she's just run into…actually, no, he** doesn't** need to know at all."_

She makes a quick decision _not_ to share her unexpected encounter with Gretchen with him, the experience still feeling too unreal, somehow not fitting into their new life anymore. Her fingers gently squeeze his hand, her eyes wandering to his - two blue pools still filled with as much love and innocence and _hope_ as the day she met him – a rather miraculous thing regards everything they've been through since then.

"I'm fine," she says quietly at last, and she means it. Watching his eyes narrow causes her to let out a small chuckle, she knows him too well to know he doesn't buy her story at all and is currently deciding whether to drop or push the subject. Bringing him out of his misery, she rises to her feet, carefully balancing the sleepy infant on her hip, protectively bringing her daughter's head to rest securely against her shoulder.

"Let's get out of here," she suggest softly, holding her hand out to his still sitting form. He skillfully takes both coffees into one of his hands, his other one grabbing her outstretched arm eagerly.

Flashing Sara a toothy smile, Michael pronounces with mincing nonchalance; "Ladies, let's go home."

She cannot help but smile.

xxx


	27. Scar

**Title: **Scar

**Characters: **Michael/Sara

**Rating: **R (I guess, but I'm rather puritan… ;)

**Genre: **angst, het, pwp

**Word Count: **aprrox. 1300

**Summary:**_Just a tiny bed talk on a topic I always wanted them to discuss, nothing too special…*shrugs*, spoilers for 2x11 and teh_Kellerman scene… _

**Warning:**No beta, sorry!

**Scar**

"I've always wondered…" his breath glides over her shoulder, his voice melting like honey when meeting her skin. His eyes and fingers wander - once again - over her flesh, exploring every inch of her skin.

Tracing his long index finger from her jaw over her neck to the top of her shoulder, she cannot help but sigh contently. Lying on her stomach, her head turned towards him while resting on the pillow, she watches him watch _her_, then he is observing, kissing, tasting. She closes her eyes, wishing this moment never to pass. His hand suddenly stops however, his fingers shortly hovering and then carefully tracing the scar disfiguring her left upper arm. She opens her eyes in order to find out why he stopped his exploration tour of her body, then sees the tense look he is giving the scarred flesh.

She squirms under his touch, wiggling under the loose sheets until she is able to support her head on her elbow. With her eyebrows raised, she gives him 'the' look, the look that tells him he can ask her freely, and that she will be ok with whatever he wants to know.

He hesitates for a moment, then meets her eyes somehow guiltily, his fingers ghosting over her scar once again.

"This one I haven't really noticed much yet. But it looks rather fresh…" he tells her softly, his eyes never leaving hers. "How did it happen?" Without blinking, she holds his gaze steadily, then replies equally softly, "It happened right after Gila…"

She feels him tense, his fingers curling themselves around the scar protectively. "_After_ you left?" he asks and she cannot help but let out a saddened sigh. "I _didn't_ leave Michael, you know that," yet he doesn't speak and she feels like he is waiting for her to add more – explain - more.

"I already told you, I was coming back, but…" He cuts her off by a slight shake of his head, telling her she misunderstood his silence.

"I know. You don't have to justify yourself to me, Sara. I _know_. And I understand," he adds softly. "I can't really blame you for leaving, can I?" he continues with a saddened look in his eyes, "I only wish …" he says with that characteristic lilt in his voice, meaning he feels, on again, guilty.

It's her time to interrupt. "You couldn't have known," she says softly, extracting her hand from his grip to cup his cheek, her thumb drawing loving patterns over his skin. He closes his eyes, expression somehow pained.

"Did…did _he_ do that to you?" his eyes open again, two blue pools, wavering.

"No," she shakes her head, her thumb continuing to caress his cheek reassuringly. "At least not directly," she feels him relax against her palm ever so slightly, but is still waiting for her to elaborate.

"He had me…he had me…" she shuts her eyes tight. This is far harder than she imagined. She feels his face turn in her palm, his lips ghosting over her skin in the most gentle of kisses; encouraging, comforting.

She finally dares to open her eyes. "He had me in a room, on the first floor. When I managed to free myself, there was no way to flee through the door without meeting him half-way, and although being badly injured, he still had a gun." She feels his breath catch in his throat, but he doesn't interrupt and she is grateful for that when she continues to tell her story, while she still possesses the strength and resolve to answer his questions.

"So I pushed the window open and then…jumped." She can hear the sharp shocked breath he takes, his lips leaving her palm, the warmth of his touch leaving her flesh in an instant, despite being missed immensely. He squeezes his eyes shut, unconsciously moving slightly away from her, muttering a single, "_Jesus…_" under his breath. His hand goes up to cover his eyes and she moves closer. Tugging the hand away from his face, she asks him to look at her and he obliges, guilt and remorse shining from his heavy-lidded blues.

"Shall I stop?" she asks softly, knowing the answer but wanting to give him the choice. He shakes his head, giving a shuddering sigh. "No. Please, continue," he mutters, his hand sneaking behind her to rest on the small of her back, drawing her closer. It still feels as amazing to her as the first time he's done that.

"There was a car, underneeth…" she continues, and sees his eyes widen, "I smashed the windshield into pieces," she confesses and he flinches, yet doesn't interrupt. "The glass cut through the flesh of my upper arm, it was a pretty deep gash," she stops, observing him quietly.

"But I got away." She concludes earnestly and sees the tiny wheels in his brain spinning feverishly.

"It was stitched," he utters at last, his brow furrowing with an effort to understand, to put the pieces together without asking any more curious questions that would elicit more painful memories.

"Where did you get it done?"

At this, she actually smiles. "Why go to a hospital to see a Doctor, when you are a Doctor yourself?" He gives her a puzzled look before his eyes widen almost to the size of two blue saucers. He takes her forearm gently, observing the scar with huge interest as well as disbelief, _admiration_ for her work all too evident. She knows it's silly, but it makes her kinda proud.

"_Wow…_" he whispers softly, his fingers running up and down the scar, his touch as light as a feather.

"Thanks," she replies appreciatively, a tiny mischievous smile brightening her face. Finally, after a couple of silent moments, he raises his eyes to meet hers. "You are _amazing…_," he breathes, but she hears a slight hesitation in his voice.

"…but?" she presses, her eyebrows rising in question. He gives an angry sigh that startles her, then rolls onto his back, facing the ceiling.

"_But_…It should never have happened to you in the first place."

There they were again, jumping on the rollercoaster of guilt and remorse and '_What ifs_' and wishes of being able to reverse time. She doesn't let him wallow in his guilt, not tonight - not _ever_ - when she knows she can do something, _anything_, about it. She rolls over, resting her head on his chest, her arms encircling his waist. He is still not responding to her.

"Look at me," she commands softly, and after a beat, he obliges. "You can't change what happened. But you make it up to me, _now_," she whispers with a light smile, her eyes shining slight mischief along with hesitation. She is too cute and too endearing and Michael cannot help but give a little smile himself. Grasping both her upper arms, he gently pulls her higher against him and stops only when her face is hovering right over his.

"Anything," he whispers, "You can have _anything_."

She smiles anew, yet this time, her grin gets flirty, her look full of lust and desire. She brings her face closer, her mouth pressed to his ear. Her hot breath is tickling and teasing his earlobe, and it's everything he can do not to shudder with anticipation and pleasure.

"Make me feel _loved_, Michael. The way only _you_ can make me feel." She whispers sexily into the hollow of his ear, but her voice has also a far deeper, richer tint. It's all it takes to make him completely undone.

That night, Michael Scofield makes up for the first scar on Sara Tancredi's troubled soul.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	28. Ten ways to show them you love them

**Fandom:** Prison Break  
**Title:** Ten ways to show them you love them  
**Characters:** Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi  
**Type:** Microfic  
**Genre:** Non-Epilogue-Complaint, plus 10 different ones, you really want me to count them out for you? ;)  
**Rating:** R  
**Length:** 100 words  
**Summary:** Michael and Sara's relationship in ten different sentences.  
**Author's Note: **_This is a microfic meme: try to write different categories of fic (angst, fluff, UST, romance...can you think of others?) in ten words or less. _

This is for spunkyar, who knows the true meaning of the word generosity and help. *hugs you tight dear* And don't worry, I still owe you that fic I promised. :)

**1.** **AU**  
They meet at a bar somewhere. She can't forget him.

**2.** **DeathFic**  
At her husbands grave, she tenderly kisses their grandsons crown.

**3. ****First Time**  
She's fucked people before. Never made love. Not until Michael.

**4. Drama**  
His hands pull her down, the bullet missing her head.

**5. ****Angst**  
At their sons third birthday, Michael's nose starts to bleed.

**6. ****Fluff**  
She doesn't drink fifty-cent beers, but the hammock feels great!

**7. ****Humor**  
One more person touches her belly? She'll break their arm.

**8.** **Hurt/Comfort**  
The scars are on _her_ back, yet she soothes _him_.

**9. ****Smut**  
She comes before he even sheds his boxers; _again_. Figures.

**10. Crack-fic**

Wentworth or Michael, Sarah or Sara, it's one big blur.

xxx


	29. Because Three is Not a crowd

**Title:** Because Three is Not a Crowd....

**Characters**: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi,

**Pairing**: Michael/Sara  
**Word Count**: approx. 372

**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Romance, Fluff

**Summary:** This is just a short companion piece that was inspired by chatty_cat 's wonderful fic Bruised that can be found **here**. :) You may read _Bruised_ first, it's really a great fic. Thanks Cathy!

_Also, since it's been _o0maybelle0o_ birthday, this is a little fluffy gift for you hunny. You asked for one a couple of weeks ago, so here you go, it's all yours! Blow the candles and then you can start to read right away! ;) _

_**Because Three is Not a Crowd....**_

"_I want you to know that I will do everything I can so that both of you will be as happy as possible"._

_He felt her turn her head slightly, then her tender kiss upon his cheek. "You already have."_

Her features softened in reaction to his previous statement before another thought came into Sara's mind almost at it's own volition. It took her just a moment to change her expression, producing a strange grin on her face before finally speaking after what seemed like minutes to Michael.

"Only the _two_ of us?" There was a mischievous lilt in her voice, her face ascending from its comfortable place on the pillow in order to meet his eyes.

Michael hesitated for a beat, giving her a rather curious and confused look before – to Sara's immense amusement - his eyebrows started to rise uncontrollably. Knowing he was starting to follow her train of thought, Sara smiled widely. However, as if only too late realizing the true nature and greatness of the topic, she couldn't help but cast her eyes downwards. When she started to speak again, her voice was once again soft and measured.

"Being an only child, I always believed I had _missed out _on something, having no siblings to grow up with. Therefore, I kind of hoped to have a large family…_one day_…" she said, hoping Michael would catch the meaning behind the addition to her statement, finally daring to look up, her soft brown meeting his warm blue.

For a moment he didn't say a word, only regarded her steadily, sizing her up and pondering her words. Then, with a huge grin spreading across his face, he asked, "Exactly how many are we talking about?"

Relieved to see him take an immediate joking path with the topic - rather than recoil at her suggestion - she graced him with a radiant smile that turned into a flirty grin, one eyebrow cocked.

"How many do you think you can handle, Scofield?" she asked, challenge and mischief mixed in her voice and look.

He only laughed heartily, embracing her tightly, bringing her flush against him. In a husky whisper, he murmured into her ear, "Try me."

xxx


	30. Analogy of Time

**Name:** Analogy of time

**Characters:** pre-escape Michael, post-series Michael, mentions of Sara, Lincoln and LJ

**Pairing: **Michael/Sara

**Genre:** Non-Epilogue Complaint, family, het, mystery, angst, fluff, humor, and probably a little of crack!fic too…I seem to have major issues with defining a suitable category for this fic…

**Word count: **approx. 4000 words

**Summary: **_What would future Michael tell the Michael yet only preparing his plan, if he got the chance? What would he warn him about, what would he disclose about the future, what advice would he give his younger self?_

**A/N:** Once upon a time, a promised the lovely spunkyar a fanfic of her choosing, to which she gave the following prompt – what would future Michael tell to pre-series Michael if he got the chance? Well, here is my take on the thing dear, I hope you'll like it. *hugs*

Thank you shibbyfangirl for the wonderful beta job. *hugs*

**Analogy of time**

_"Imagination is more important than knowledge, for knowledge is limited."  
__**A. Einstein**_

~~~~~oOo~~~~~

Looking at the wall one last time, Michael's mind is going over each and every step of the plan once again. His eyes skim through the various articles, photos, blueprints, post-its and side notes before he lets out one final deep breath. The plan is here, solid and manageable, changeable and adaptable if needed, yet there are still too many variables one can never predict and include in the plan, Michael knows. And despite eliminating as many as possible, there are still no guarantees he will succeed in his efforts. No guarantees at all. Still, he knows it's worth the try. Besides, it's too late to chicken out now; the tattoos are already in place, carefully inked into his skin forever.

His eyes return to the news article with the photo of his brother, the headlines screaming the inconvenient truth, '_Lincoln Burrows' final appeal rejected'_.

_God, __Lincoln…_ Michael sighs anew, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing his fingertips to delicately rest on his aching temples. _Thirty fucking grand… a debt of thirty fucking grand – a loan to secure his little brothers well-being and education - has earned his brother the electric chair in one of the most secure prisons in America. _

_And soon, there is going to be one more inmate added._

The pulsing pain in his temples intensifies. He doesn't know what to expect, he doesn't know how to behave and trade best with these dangerous men. There is hardly a manual you can use to stay safe in a place like Fox River, but Michael doesn't really care about his safety anymore. Still, deep down he knows he would be insane if he wasn't at least a little bit scared.

"Getting cold feet already?" says a familiar voice with an amused yet caring tone right from behind him, "by all means, you really should. At least, try to enjoy the cold of all ten toes, while you still can." The voice is not exactly mocking, but it's not too tactful either, and when Michael turns around to see who is talking to him, he is surprised – to say the least – to see _himself_. His _other_, slightly more 'rounded in the middle' self.

The other Michael doesn't look much older than he is right now, though he certainly looks more worn. His eyes are a darker shade of blue, and there is something resembling the experience of a much - _much_ - older man recognizable in them.

His other self – _this is the only way he can think of calling him_ – steps right next to him, shifting his gaze to the wall, oblivious to Michael's stare.

"I've almost forgotten how much work it has cost me to create this thing," he comments, his eyes stopping on a picture or two with an almost nostalgic care. "Are you tearing it down tonight?" he asks with nonchalant curiosity, his eyebrows raised an inch in a polite gesture of inquiry. Michael can only nod.

"Pity, really," the other Michael says. "If I could go back, I would have kept a couple of these…" he points to some images on the wall.

"Which ones?" asks Michael carefully, his curiosity now winning the better of him and causing him to eye his very own wall with deep-seeded interest.

"Well, for starters…" contemplates the slightly chubbier Michael, his fingers coming to graze his whiskered cheek, "I would definitely keep _this_ one…" His hand comes up to point his finger at the news article about the achievements of the Governors daughter in India. "It's hard to get ones hands on an original copy of this little gem these days. Trust me, I've searched numerous libraries." he continues casually, as if talking weather and not a secretive, covert law-breaking plan instead, "You know, she likes to tease me about my obsession in retrieving everything I've once had of her on this wall, but well," his older self shrugs, "you know me. I like keeping track. One cannot look into the future without knowing and understanding their past properly."

"Besides," he says, his eyes softening with an unfamiliar glow, "she looks so lovely here. It's been only a few months before she started …" the older version stops death in the middle of his sentence, as if recoiling at the thought of almost giving away too much. "Never mind," he concludes. Noticing Michael probably hasn't been listening anyway; his younger self's stare is directed at his bare arms, consisting of vast areas of smooth and white skin - skin stripped off any tattoos whatsoever.

Suddenly, Michael is not sure what time-frame version of himself he is currently talking to. But this slightly bulkier version of him _does_ seem to know a lot about his future, not to mention he cannot recall ever looking like this - _older, experienced, but also most strikingly_ '_content'_… - and so he decides to make the best of this conversation, taking whatever information or piece of advice he can give himself – _yes, it definitely sounds crazy even to himself – himself giving advice to himself … wait, which self now?_ – in order to not make the same mistakes twice, to not threaten the plan and to raise his chances to save his brother's life.

"Will I succeed?" He asks without preamble the most natural and ultimate question, all of a sudden too eager to know the outcome of all of his endeavors. His other self regards him steadily, pondering the extent of the answer he is allowed to give. With his eyes slightly narrowed, he finally gives him a slow nod.

"Yes, you will." He pauses for a moment before he continues. "But it will come with sacrifices. Far graver than you could ever have imagined or be prepared for." The tone of his other version changes, quivers, but Michael is not listening anymore. _He will succeed, he will save Lincoln._ A smile graces his lips and for some reason, this seems to irritate his other self greatly.

"Those sacrifices will not be just yours!" The rise of his voice surprising both of them, the older Michael takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes momentarily in order to settle down, before continuing in a far calmer tone, "And trust me, you will find it far harder to forgive yourself for being the cause of other people's pain and suffering. Sometimes, you will even have to _make them_ do sacrifices, against their genuine will or consent. It's a heavy burden not to be taken lightly, but seeing you care this little, I cannot understand what she possibly could have seen in me back then," he finishes, an angry as well as self-loathing lilt coating his velvety voice.

"Lincoln is innocent," Michael tries to defend his cause, his own voice raising a notch. "He was framed and doesn't deserve to die!"

"So don't other people," says his other self quietly, his voice slightly trembling. Maybe it's the sight of a deep, still-opened wound reflected in his older-self's eyes that makes Michael realize that maybe - just maybe - he is truly underestimating the price that needs to be paid for Lincoln's freedom. But is he, really? Isn't it a price high enough when you throw your life away, exchanging a luxurious life for your only relative's life? Well, for Michael it sure is an easy choice, but a low price? No, it's not, despite the fact there isn't a high enough cost he wouldn't pay in order save his family.

"Lincoln is not your only family. At least it won't stay that way forever," the other Michael utters quietly, trying to give warnings to his much more naïve and innocent self.

"I know, there is LJ too," says Michael somewhat impatiently. His eyes then lower in shame when thinking about his nephew and the damage the news of his uncle's arrest will cause him. And yet, his other version only shakes his head, an amused tiny smile dancing upon his lips.

"No, not just LJ. There are so many other forms of family yet to be discovered for you," says the other Michael, but his wise, slightly patronizing tone irritates the younger man to the bone.

Again, as if sensing the disagreement in the man still kept in the dark about the grave events that are yet to unfold, he cannot help but to add softly, "a lot can change in just a one year's time."

Michael looks back at the wall, his eyes searching for something that might have point him in the right direction. _Lincoln,_ _D., John Abruzzi, Cell Test, Pugnac, the stolen Fox River blueprints, A-wing plans, English Fitz and Percy, Allen Schweizer, and finally, a clipping from the yearbook of the governor's daughter,_ yet Michael cannot see the connection.

"You'll find out soon enough," says the other Michael somewhat soothingly, a small, knowing smile dancing upon his lips before it contorts into a grimace upon a certain memory. "Again, you will cause a lot of damage along your way, and you will have to be prepared to make amends and take full responsibility for the results of your actions. I won't ask if you are ready for the challenge, because I know for a fact that you are. Just carry in mind that Lincoln's freedom will cause a lot of other heads to roll…" the older Michael almost winces at his last choice of words, wishing he was tactful enough to select them more carefully.

"People you'll care about deeply will get hurt badly. In some ways, beyond repair," his last words barely a whisper; something dreary and guilty flickers in the darker set of blue eyes.

"He is my brother," says Michael at last, putting an extra emphasizes on the last word, "I cannot let them kill him, no matter what. Not when he is _innocent_."

"Yes, but are you willing to let other people suffer and die in order to pursue your own cause?" The other man's tone has turned almost as fierce as Michael's own. Then, as a man remembering his much younger days, he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and truce.

"I am not telling you _not_ to do it. I know nothing will be able to stop you from doing it at this point, as much as I cannot say I would make a different choice if faced with the same options again. I only want you to know and consider the ultimate cost that will come with the achievement of your goal. And I also want to warn you against making some of the gravest mistakes along the way."

"What are you talking about?" asks Michael quickly, the eagerness in his voice badly concealed.

"I can't give you any precise directions as to what to do or not, but there are a few things you may want to take into consideration."

"And what are those?" Michael asks, this time more calmly despite the curiousity burning within him.

"For starters, choose your friends and enemies carefully. There is a line to cooperation with certain people you should never cross, no matter what the cause."

Michael turns his head abruptly, looking at the wall. "Abruzzi?" he asks, looking at his other self expectantly.

The older man only shakes his head. "No. It's somebody who is not on the wall yet, but one who you can _never_ trust or count on, in any matter or situation whatsoever. You'll find soon enough who he is. Trust me, he won't be hard to recognize."

Michael slowly nods as the words sink in, trying hard to trust _himself_, yet skeptical of other than his very own mind by nature. _Yet, this _is_ his own mind as well, isn't it?_

"What else?" he asks, watching the other Michael's face as it turns again to the wall. His eyes stop at a picture, yet from his point of stand, Michael cannot say with certainty which precise photo the other man is looking at.

"No matter what, don't let her leave you in Gila," he almost whispers those words, a deep, fierce and unhealed ache lacing his voice, and Michael's eyes, following the line of sight of the other man, widen in surprise when finally stopping upon the picture of the Governor's daughter.

"_Her_?" he asks with unmasked shock while watching his other self slowly nod in affirmation.

"Yes, _her_," his older version repeats, but the word falls far more tenderly from his lips. "She is the key. In far more ways but one." There is something deep and rich shining in his future self's eyes, and all of a sudden, Michael cannot suppress the urge to wonder and laugh skeptically if this particular piece of information.

"The governor's daughter? The dreamy doctor with ideals of changing the world, in a maximum-security prison?" he asks incredulously, his eyes observing the slightly paled newspaper photograph, desperately willing his eyes to catch something that would make him view her as something different than just a simple bolt in his plan, but he simply can't see anything.

"_Yet,"_ the other Michael thinks to himself and can't help as a soft smile touches his lips.

"She is just a pawn in the game…" says Michael, wondering how the hell he could think about this woman, no matter how beautiful or smart or funny or compassionate, in any other way than that. To his great surprise, the other Michael's smile merely seems to grow.

"You know, I never wanted to believe when S…when she told me she believed I must have been really cocky and arrogant before my prison days, but now I have to admit, I can clearly see her point," the smirk widens.

"You aren't being serious, are you?" The younger Michael asks with a voice filled with true bewildered and disbelief. "Out of _all_ people, of all places and ways one can meet a woman, you are telling me I will…" W_hat exactly will he? Fall for?_ He isn't sure he even wants to know so he merely repeats his previous words, "The Governor's daughter. Really? The person who is supposed to be just the means to an end, a high-class lady trying to make a difference amongst the worst of men? And _I_, Michael Scofield - a man always shy and rather cold about women - am supposed to charm and be charmed in return by a rich daughter of the only politician who can save Lincoln's life but who ever won't? As an inmate no less? While executing a dangerous plan??? Sorry for my lack of trust here, but that's simply insane and lacks any logic."

"Love often does," says the older Michael simply, "and don't forget, _you've_ found her, not the other way around." The man points at the yearbook quote Michael knows by heart by now – _Be the change you want to see in the world_ – and ponders about the other man's words, especially the word '_love_' stubbornly echoing in his head over and over.

He doesn't deny he is in shock. _Isn't love too strong of a word to describe his possible future relationship with the prison Doctor? Attraction, interest, maybe even chemistry, but love?_ Michael Scofield simply isn't used to think about _love_ in other terms as _family_ - as his mother, his brother, and his nephew, plus Veronica, maybe. So forgive him when his mind goes into more than slight panic over thinking about the woman he doesn't know other than from clips of newspaper and yearbook photos, as his future _'love'_.

"Why are you telling me this?" Michael manages to say at last, suspicion slowly starting to creep up in his chest. "What is _your_ investment in this game?" he asks and watches his other self' face grow serious again at once.

"It's by no means just '_a game'_. And my only investment in this is to spare some people unnecessary grief."

"Like her?" asks Michael, pointing his chin to the wall at the direction of Sara Tancredi's photograph. He feels a surprising rush of odd satisfaction upon observing the clear distaste at his choice of words in the other man's eyes. He doesn't know why, but he suddenly feels like he evened the score with his more informed self. The man with the bulkier frame trades more wisely and doesn't respond to the challenge in Michael's words. Instead, he chooses to change the subject from solely Sara to a more general direction.

"Yes, like Sara," he admits, the words parting his lips with an odd feeling of reluctance. But what the younger Michael notices isn't this but the fact that, obviously, he will at some point in the future be on first name terms with the governor's daughter. He doesn't have the time to ponder this much longer though, for the other man continues without a pause, "Or like Bob. Or Lisa, or…Veronica," he says at last, raw pain dripping from his words at last.

Michael cannot help but gasp out loud. _Lisa? Veronica?_

"Just try to keep them away from all of this, as much as possible," the other Michael's voice is urgent, almost pleading now. "There are certain people whose involvement you won't be able to prevent," his eyes wander to the wall involuntarily, his eyes stopping on the beautiful redhead for the shortest of moments before returning to look at Michael again, "but there are people you may be able to save by keeping them as far away from the whole mess as possible."

"_May be_?" asks Michael, his own voice coming out in a choked whisper.

"I told you there would be grave sacrifices," says his other self ruefully. He gives his younger time-twin some space to recover from the shocking news. At last, the younger version of the brilliant man asks the most important question Michael knows there is.

"Do you regret what you've done?"

The older Michael stays still for a couple of moments before finally speaking, the words leaving his lips somewhat clumsily, almost involuntarily.

"Certainly, there are things I _do_ regret, some more than other. But considering the events that have unfolded once _after_ I've jumped into the pool full of sharks, over time I came to the final realization that there were things I simply couldn't have predicted. And that there was a far greater picture involved than I ever could have imagined, than _anyone _could have imagined, really. Therefore, some of the actions following my plan cannot be put directly onto my head, although I certainly started the whole ball rolling. And that's something I will have to live with for the rest of my life."

There is silence in the room, both men trapped in their own thoughts for a moment.

"One more question," asks Michael, suddenly overcome by all sorts of emotions he cannot identify nor sort out. "What about Lincoln and LJ?"

"Both will get their well-deserved peace in the end, if that's what you are asking," says the other Michael, and it truly is all the information Michael wants to get from in return to his question.

"So it was worth it then," concludes Michael at last, relief sweeping over him.

"Yes," Michael's older self utters before a smile forms upon his lips, his thumb subconsciously rubbing the soft, worn skin of his - at the moment - bare ring finger, "and not only for the two of them. Just keep your faith, no matter how hopeless things will appear at some point or another. The light at the end of the tunnel will be worth every notch of pain and grief. And despite the occasional heavy feel of guilt pressing at you for some of your actions, actions some of which you may have prevented from happening. Once you see the bigger picture, the cross will be a little bit easier to bear. Especially since you'll have plenty of help." At this, Michael's older version mysteriously smiles.

"Oh, and one last thing. When you talk to her for the very first time, try to skip the 'junkie' note. It's rather rude, cocky, and won't do you any favors," he says, a sudden sheepish expression appearing on his face. "Trust me, it's still something that uses to embarrass me when looking back at our Fox River times."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you can never know everything, nor be prepared good enough. There are always some variables you cannot predict. Don't make the same mistakes I've done along with some of my enemies. Don't make assumptions that you and you alone are always and in every situation the smartest one, having the upper hand and complete control over every single thing, every single conversation, believing to be able to calculate the precise impact of your words. You can never know…" he sighs somehow ruefully, a frustrated lilt attached to the gesture, "Just don't use that line, okay? It's insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it will do more damage than good in general, no matter how charming and suiting it will feel at that moment, alright?"

Michael shrugs his shoulders but then nods, albeit a bit too carelessly for his other self's liking. However, he won't pretend he is not getting impatient and tired of trying to read the encrypted messages his other self is feeding him. "Whatever."

There is an angry flicker in his other self' eyes for the shortest of moments, then it's gone, replaced by a knowing smile. _Cocky and arrogant_, Sara has said to Michael later in time, but he didn't believe she meant it in all seriousness back then. Now, however, the older version of Michael Scofield has to admit once again with defeat - he was precisely just as arrogant and bigheaded as she said. His relationship with her changed him and made him a better man, a better person. For that, he knows he will always be grateful.

In the meanwhile, the younger Michael's gaze is once again trained at the wall, studying and observing his piece of art before he will tear it down later in the evening, his eyes then wander back to his other self.

He is no longer there.

A loud cry rings through the penthouse, a cry whose source is indefinable to Michael, yet getting louder with each new-drawn breath. It's a cry of a child, probably a baby, and Michael starts to look around frantically, his eyes desperately searching the spacious apartment for the tiny life expanding their lungs in the loudest cries of anger and despair. The penthouse, however, looks too big and too empty, and as the cries grow louder, Michael suddenly snaps from his deep slumber, his eyes suddenly wide open and searching the shadows of the dark room.

He is disoriented momentarily, lying on his side in a king-sized bed that feels vaguely familiar. Instinctively turning to the only source of light, he sees a shadow of a person standing in the doorframe - _a woman_, Michael realizes - cradling a baby to her chest, hushing and lulling the infant back into sleep.

"Sorry, did we wake you?" her soft voice carries to him from the doorway and Michael can hear the smile and happiness in her voice, despite the late night hour and the fussing baby in her arms.

All of a sudden, it all falls back into place by the speed of light. He is home, with his wife, who is currently cradling their child –_ God, their wonderful, perfect baby boy _- attempting to lull him back to sleep again.

He shakes his head, partly in an answer to her question, but mostly to clear it from the remnants of the weird dream he just had. His line of vision catches his bare feet sticking out from underneath the light cool crisp sheets, and he is able to wiggle only three toes on his left foot.

_Thank __God for that_, he thinks, getting up to join his wife, taking the tiny life into his arms, kissing his head lovingly.

"C'mon buddy, what's the matter?" he inquires soothingly, rocking the baby up and down, all the same giving a glowing Sara his most charming smile.

It was worth it. If for nothing else, it was all worth it for this amazing new life, stilling back to sleep in his daddy's strong, steady circle of arms.

~~~~~oOo~~~~~


	31. Parental Care

**Name:** Paternal Care  
**Characters:** Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, mentions of Michael Jr.  
**Genre:** Non-Epilogue Compliant, het, angst, hurt/comfort  
**Word count: **approx. 2200 words  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** A belated (very belated) Bday fic for Skybelpb . Happy Birthday again, Jules! :)  
_She thought that at this point of her life - and particularly her relationship with Michael - she was prepared for anything. Once again, Michael has proven her otherwise. In fact, Sara is so shocked at the topic of Michael's little 'research' that it takes her a full minute to actually stop skimming through the article she didn't realize she even started reading._

**A/N: **Ashley, I love you, but you already know that, don't you? ;) Oh and hunny, regarding the medical article issue, it got so confusing in the end, lol, that I went for my original plan, Wikipedia. I know it's lame, but hey, I am a lame girl, right? ;) Besides, you can truly google it, how cool is that?! ;)))) And a professor of mine always says, that whatever people say, Wikipedia is the best place to start a research, for it has wonderful and 90 percent truthful and extremely useful links. ;) Just saying…

**Paternal Care**

_The guys who fear becoming fathers don't understand that fathering is not something perfect men do, but something that perfects the man. The end product of child raising is not the child but the parent. _

_~Frank Pittman,_ _Man Enough_~

~oOo~

Sara smiles to herself as she stands in the open doorway observing her husband with his brow furrowed in concentration and his back hunched over the computer screen. Taking a rather long nap, she now feels more rested than she has in days.

She steps quietly into the room, her bare feet tapping ever so slightly at the wooden floors of their home. The curtains are quietly flapping against the open French doors and the breeze caresses her warm skin on her path to the man she loves.

Even with his keen observation skills, he still hasn't noticed her yet. His thoughts and eyes seem to be directed solely on the online article he is reading. A small mischievous smile escapes her lips just before she reaches his chair and her arms come around him from behind, encircling his shoulders as she closes the remaining gap between their bodies. He jumps at her touch, but calms immediately upon the soft shushing sound against his ear. She is drawing soothing patterns against his shoulders, her face coming to rest against his neck, kissing it gently, her smile still dancing upon her face when her lips make contact with his skin.

"Jumpy," she observes, continuing to kiss his neck lovingly. "Doing something naughty?" she lightly jokes but suddenly feels him stiffen at her words. As she raises her head to look at the screen, she only has time to see Michael's slender fingers moving quickly in haste to lower the screen of the laptop, efficiently preventing her from seeing what he was reading about. She frowns slightly, turning her head to look properly into his face for the very first time. He looks uncomfortable, nervous even, like an unruly child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"So what were you looking at? Pictures of some beautiful ladies who can't afford to buy any clothes whatsoever?" she continues to tease him lightly. Her voice is still amused and quiet, her nose coming to nuzzle his neck. But then she feels his distress growing even more and she cannot help but start to feel a little uneasy herself.

She hears him clear his voice hoarsely. "Nothing important," he utters shrugging, but she knows better.

"If it's nothing important," she says playfully, an amused lilt still coloring her voice, "I can certainly take a look then, can't I?" Before she even finishes her sentence, she manages to outstretch her hand from behind him to the laptop, lifting the screen so she can get a proper view at the screen. She can feel dread and panic rip through Michael, trying to stop her, but before he has a chance to close the screen once again, it's already too late.

Her own breath hitches in her throat at the headline of the Wikipedia article.

_MATERNAL DEATH_

She is frozen to her spot, her mind momentarily exploding with her thoughts being scattered all around the place. It takes her a long moment to even start collecting them back again.

She thought that at this point of her life - and particularly her relationship with Michael - she was prepared for _anything_. Once again, Michael has proven her otherwise. In fact, Sara is so shocked at the topic of Michael's little 'research' that it takes her a full minute to actually _stop_ skimming through the article she didn't realize she even started reading.

_Maternal death, or maternal mortality, also "obstetrical death" is the death of a woman during or shortly after a pregnancy._

Before she can help it, she feels her chest tighten, her stomach reel. Her eyes glass over on their own volition, while a tight lump starts to form in her throat. It takes her a few, agonizingly long seconds to recover from the initial shock before she is even able to concentrate on her crestfallen husband, his slumped posture screaming despair and shame at her discovery. He has turned his head away from her now, and his eyes are silently staring out at the ocean through the open French doors.

For the millionth time she tries to access him - his mood, his fears, his state of mind. Yet she fails completely in her task. She has absolutely no idea what triggered his need to seek out this particular kind of information, but she knows there is always a reason – one more valid or grave than the other - for Michael to feel so cornered that he finds the need to take desperate precautions in order to ensure their safety. And yet, she is at a loss this time. There's been no complication in her pregnancy, not even a single one, as well as there was no danger to their new life whatsoever.

Suddenly, she notices his shoulders tremble just the slightest bit and her heart painfully flutters in her chest, her arms squeezing his frame tightly from behind. She presses her cheek against his shoulder, giving him a generous amount of time but not a single inch of space while he collects his thoughts and faces his fears.

She tells him she loves him, pressing a kiss against his shoulder every now and then. Her heart aches for the man who hates to show any weakness, a man who considers himself a burden still, especially in times like these, when it's _him_ who is in need, him who seeks comfort rather than being the one to grant it.

"I'm…I'm sorry…I shouldn't have…I shouldn't even _consider_ something like that might happen…" he chokes, his voice weak and full of remorse. Instantly, her embrace tightens.

"Talk to me about it and you are forgiven," she murmurs and there is no command or demand in her tone. It's merely a plea.

Just at this very moment, their baby decides to make themselves known, kicking hard against Sara's stomach. She lets an involuntary gasp of pain, yet cannot help but chuckle lightly.

"I think somebody feels a little neglected."

She feels strangely triumphant, proud even, when she feels Michael relax just the tiniest bit. He still doesn't turn, but his hands grope behind his back until they reach her rounded belly, gently caressing her strained skin.

"Sorry baby," he utters at last, a barely audible amusement in his voice.

They sit like that for a couple of minutes longer. The atmosphere has shifted a little, a feeling of quiet understanding and calm passing between them without words. In the end, it's Michael who breaks the silence, knowing she needs to hear an answer almost as desperately as he is to conceal it.

"I just…I had this dream last night. About you, about the baby." He stops only to feel her embrace tighten even more, if possible. It gives him the very much needed strength to continue.

"I am just so scared that with my bad luck…" he trails off, unable to finish the sentence. Taking a shuddering breath, he wills himself to continue. "Sooner or later, everything -- _everyone_ most dear and close to my heart is always being taken away from me. I cannot bear the thought of losing you, _again_."

She cannot help but kiss the side of his neck in despair, her own eyes moist, the renewed lump in her throat effectively gagging her, forbidding her from granting any kind of verbal comfort. Another few moments pass before he continues, his words strangled, pained.

"I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you or the baby."

Strangely, it's this statement that untangles her tongue, unlocks her lips.

"Nothing is going to happen to me or our baby," she proclaims resolutely, her voice leaving her lungs in one quick rush. She can tell he is not convinced, not one bit, but it serves merely to fortify her belief. She tries another approach, her voice more gentle, more soothing this time. "I am healthy Michael. We are _both_ healthy, me and the baby, and there is no reason for you to fret something might go wrong…"

"There is _always_ a reason," he interrupts maybe too sharply, but at least, he turns around, finally looking at her. His grief-stricken crystal eyes say it all. A painful sigh leaves her lips before she brings her hands around his neck, drawing him closer. She knows she is losing this particular battle, and all of a sudden, she is too tired to continue. She folds in defeat, but she does so with love and grace.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asks, hoping there is at least a single thing, anything really, she can do to make him feel at least the tiniest bit from outward miserable. If coincidentally or in outward deliberation Sara doesn't know, but it's this precise moment their baby decides to make themselves known again, kicking against his mother's belly hard. Sara smiles anew, rectifying her statement when her hands automatically come to rest upon her stomach in a light, loving caress. "Is there anything _we_ can do?"

This eludes the tiniest of smiles even from Michael. His hands once again come up to rest against her belly, drawing soothing patterns over the stretched piece of skin. All of a sudden however, this mere touch is not nearly enough for Michael. He bends over, bringing his head down to press a lingering kiss to Sara's swollen abdomen.

"I love you both, you know that, right?" he whispers against her belly, his soft breath sending goose bumps rising against her skin.

"Yes, we do. And now," she says her last words with false bravado, despite all her insides wildly fluttering in her chest, "lets close this," she shuts the computer off, the internet page immediately fading into the blackness of the screen, "and go have a little swing in our hammock. I want to use it as much as possible before I'm too large for it to fit the both of us."

A soft chuckle leaves Michaels lips, but before she can rise to her feet, he draws her frame close again, as if in an attempt to hide her in his embrace as much as humanly possible. With a tight squeeze in her chest, it seems to Sara like he's trying to shield her, _them_, against the horrors of this world.

"Tell me about your dream," she propones carefully, feeling him shake his head against her shoulder even before her sentence is finished. She sighs in disappointment, but then his hands are on her face, stroking her cheeks and neck, before gliding over her crown and through the soft tresses of liquid copper.

"It was just a dream," he says reassured, and this time, she believes he truly means it. A small smile steals its way to her face.

"That's my man," she grins, tugging him closer by the collar until their lips touch in a light caress. Again, their baby chooses that moment to kick, causing Michael's own grin to spread.

"That's my girls," he says smugly, cupping Sara's belly in both hands, his eyes never leaving Sara's, a soft smile dancing over his lips.

"Oh, so it's a girl today?" she asks, her tone amused, eyebrows raised.

"Girl, boy, whatever. As long as you and the baby are healthy, the sex doesn't matter," he says, watching a strange, glowing glint invading Sara's eyes.

"Oh Mr. Scofield, trust me, the sex _does_ matter!"

She watches Michael's look change, his eyebrows rise. His cheeks turn crimson and she knows with a feeling of satisfaction she caught him off-guard and threw him off of his balance. She is more than pleased and a little bit smug with herself at his reaction. He is trying to mask his surprise, of course, but to no avail. At last, a challenging smile forms on his lips. "Oh, so you say the hen existed before the egg, then?"

"Are you turning this into a philosophical debate, Michael?" she dares, pressing her chest against his, subtly pressing and rubbing against him, getting him exactly where she wants him. He doesn't protest in the least bit.

"God help me, no! I would never start a debate with a pregnant woman," he says, grinning.

"How about a physical match, then?" she pushes anew, joining her hands behind his neck. She is a bit clumsy in her attempts on a sexy, seductive behavior, for her swollen belly prevents her from properly gluing her frame against his own. His smile merely grows at her unsuccessful, ungraceful attempts, the tiny trace of frustration furrowing her brow making her more sexy than humanly possible. The remnants of the darkness dissipate completely from his posture as well as mind the moment his lips touch hers again.

"I am sure we will be able to reach a draw," he whispers against her lips, his words hitting her face in a gentle, warm puff of air. She joins their faces again, eager and enthusiastic.

"The game's on!"

~oOo~


	32. We could have that one day, if we wanted

**Name:** We could have that one day, if we wanted…

**Characters/pairing:** Michael/Sara, Michael Jnr.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genre:** Non-epilogue compliant, Het, General, Fluff, Angst

**Word count:** approx. 1500 words

**Summary:**_Sara sniffs, squeezing her eyes shut, suppressing the hot tears momentarily blurring her vision. She exhales slowly, loudly, then lets out a barky chuckle, inwardly laughing at the powerful influence of post-partum hormone levels._

**A/N:** Okay. This is inexcusably late, but better late than never, right? Dear Eight8toes, this is for you dear, a belated birthday present. Hope you'll like.

Also, I know I am probably fairly rusty on my writting, lol, so this tiny fic also served as a little writting exercise for me. :)

Spunkyar, I love you. You know why. :)

**We could ****have that one day, if we wanted…**

She has finished packing and is prepared to leave. Actually, she cannot wait until she is allowed to do so. It's not that she isn't grateful for everything the nice people here have done for her, but she is ready to go _home_. She craves the privacy as well as freedom their house has to offer, as much as she dreams of sinking into the warm, soft mattress of their bed, her head cuddling into the cool gentleness of their pillows. She cannot wait to be able to take the long, hot shower she's been dreaming about since she gave birth to their child two days ago. The thought of the cool streams of water gently soothing her whole aching body almost causes a shiver of anticipation run through her body.

But to be perfectly honest, the thing she craves the most is some alone time with her husband and their newborn baby. The hospital is nice, no complaint there, but it's still just a hospital. A place full of sick people seeking treatment, a place where people get cured but also die, a place that especially for her bears the sense of commitment, duty, and her inevitable failure with a fair portion of shame.

She is deeply ashamed - even now and at this very moment, after all this time - as she cradles her son to her chest, watching him sleep peacefully, oblivious of his very own perfection as well as the overwhelming love of his mother. She wants a fresh start, God, she wants it _so_ badly. It's not only for her son - the fresh start she wishes - but for all of them, and she very much wishes for their son to have a mother worth of his unconditional love.

She is afraid of becoming her mother's daughter; a sick, lost soul that is too tired and too spent, drunk or drugged into oblivion, up until the point to not care about anybody else's needs but her own.

It would be the most destructible path, a path that - no doubt - would transform her into her child's source of deepest shame and disappointment, a case scenario she knows only too well.

Sara sniffs, squeezing her eyes shut, suppressing the hot tears momentarily blurring her vision. She exhales slowly, loudly, then lets out a barky chuckle, inwardly laughing at the powerful influence of post-partum hormone levels. Her baby merely wriggles in her arms before settling back into a peaceful sleep. She had never felt more emotionally overwhelmed in her whole life. Stroking the infant's tiny face, she starts to whisper softly to the little boy, the most precious part of her soul born into blood and flesh.

"Mommy is being silly, isn't she? Waiting so long for you to arrive, now look at what a mess she is," the infant doesn't as much as creek one eye open, but Sara doesn't mind. She knows, only as a mother can know, her child hears every single thing she says to him, even if not understanding the exact meaning of her words so far. If nothing else, her voice is soothing to the ears of the little bundle in her arms, and she cannot help but smile a little complacently.

"You know, it's all Daddy's fault really," she whispers conspiratorially before pouting stubbornly at the sweet child, peacefully sleeping in her arms. "He should have been here with your uncle half an hour ago to pick us up, but he is running late, and that's causing your mommy to be a little tense and unnecessarily worried." Her voice wavers a little at her last words, so she chooses to think about something else instead.

"Now, what will we do once we get home, huh? Would you like to nap a little longer? Or would you like to have something yummy first?" She cannot help but brush her lips affectionately against the infant's forehead before continuing. "You are going to love your new room Michael," her voice trembles slightly when realizing she just said their sons name for the very first time aloud, "…you'll see. Daddy painted it all just for you. There is a huge crib for you in the corner, just beside the window, and there is a lot of stuffed toys waiting for you to cuddle and play with. And there is even a nice, comfy rocking chair we can rock in while nursing." She shoots a short glance at the wall clock before returning her gaze to her son's pure perfection, including all ten fingers as well as toes.

"Just have a little patience dear, I am sure Daddy will be here shortly. You see, he really cannot wait to take you home. He's been _so_ excited about you. He thinks you are the most beautiful thing on this planet, but lets be honest here, that's what he used to tell _me_ before you came along, too." She smiles at the memory of Michael, holding his son for the very first time. The crushing pride, love and amazement in his eyes brought tears into Sara's own. If she had any doubt about his parenting skills – which she hadn't – that one would have been the moment to persuade her she couldn't wish for a better father for her child.

There is a soft knock on the door, bringing Sara from her reverie. The door opens slowly, a familiar, short-cropped head and a pair of deep ocean-blue eyes pop inside. The features on the handsome face stretch into the widest smile possible immediately upon spotting his two miracles, then he is stepping inside, closing the door behind him soundlessly. In two quick strides he stands beside the bed, his upper body bending down shortly to kiss first his wife, then his son.

"Ready to go home?" he asks gently, his eyes switching between Sara and their baby. She nods happily, then gestures towards the nearby chair, her bag already packed and impatiently waiting for their departure.

"What took you so long?" she asks with a voice still filled with quiet happiness, carefully turning the baby in her arms in order to stand from the bed. Her movements are still pretty awkward, still too slow and unsure, but Michael doesn't seem to notice any of it. He is staring at her, _them_, a lopsided grin playing over his lips. It's his eyes that betray him however. He is still extremely emotional about this, about his new found luck, and most importantly, about the chance to have a family - a life – with the only person he could ever wish or imagine it with.

Suddenly shaking his head as if waking from a heavy slumber, his smile widens, his hands holding out a small yellow paper bag with tiny balloons on it. Taken by surprise, Sara takes the gift from him, wondering how she didn't notice the obvious present before. Well, actually she knows - though she would never admit it openly. Seriously though, like who could _really_ concentrate on anything else but him when being in one room with Michael Scofield. And Sara has a very hard try to cover up her blush.

"It was spur of the moment," Michael says almost apologetically, oblivious of her blush due to producing one of his own, and the soft stain of red coloring his cheeks makes him irresistible. Reaching forward, Sara wraps her palm over the nape of his neck, urging him closer until their lips meet.

"Thank you," she murmurs against his face before withdrawing quickly, already peeking inside, her curiosity winning the better of her. All she can see though is what looks like a tangle of white cotton fabric, so she carefully pours the contents of the bag on the bed, one arm still securely wrapped around her little one's body.

There are three shirts laying on the bed. All different sizes, all white, and all with a single word in black print across their fronts.

The word on the biggest says '_daddy_', the second one holds a single "_mommy_", and the tiniest shirt has written "_baby_" on it.

She cannot help but laugh out loud, causing her son to stir with discontent at the sudden noise. Sara turns in order to eye her husband amusedly, one eyebrow sexily cocked in a disbelieving gesture.

"Matching outfits! Really?"

Michael only shrugs, his blush deepening, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Well, it was just an idea. You can throw them out, if you don't like them," he says, and for a second, he looks almost miserable. Sara merely chuckles some more before closing the remaining space between them, kissing his lips sweetly. Pulling away not more than an inch, she whispers the words that make his heart skip a beat, her breath hitting his face in a warm puff of air.

"I will keep them _only_ if I can have a photo hanging on the living room wall with the three of us in them."

She watches with satisfaction as his face relaxes, his features once again radiating happiness and even a little bit of mischief.

"Lincoln will surely tell us they are cheesy," he offers tentatively, observing her reaction. It's her turn to shrug carelessly.

"Would you mind?"

His grin merely widens. "Bring it on!"

xxx


	33. Marry Her

**Name**: Marry Her

**Characters**: Lincoln, Michael, Sara

**Pairing**: Michael/Sara

**Genre**: dialogue-only, non-epilogue-compliant, het, fluff, humor, general, and a tiny pinch of crack too

**Rating**: PG-13

**Word** **count**: approx. 1200 words

**Warning**: Probably slightly out of character, due to the genre as well as some other, insane factors currently ruling over my life. Sorry for that.

**Summary**: A little humorous and naughty idea about the way how Michael came to ask Sara to marry him. ;)

**A/N**: Thanks spunkyar, for the wonderful beta. *squishes*

_For __**msgenevieve**__, whose birthday I was forced to miss for my computer was broken at that time. I am so sorry dear, hope to make it up to you at least a tiny bit with this totally silly, cheesy ficlet._

_*hugs you tight*_

**Marry Her**

"Why don't you marry her?"

"_What??_"

"I mean, what's there to wait for? She is _perfect_ for you, you two love each other like crazy, and hell, she's even carrying your child!"

"That's barely a reason to get married nowadays Lincoln, especially you should know that. Besides, there is still so much for us to learn about each other, still so much to talk about, and so many issues to solve…"

"Jeez Michael, just once try _not_ to plan every damned trifle in your life and instead try to _live_ it. C'mon, you know even better than me that there will be plenty of time to do all the things you mentioned even _after_ the wedding."

"What are you, an expert on familial life all of a sudden, Linc?"

"Hey! Stop being sarcastic with me, you know how much I hate that."

"Then _you_ stop pushing me with insane notions, alright? Why do you care so much anyway?"

"Because I think you should made it official, little bro. You've got yourself a gorgeous girl and a baby on the way. Call my old-fashioned if you must, but I really believe that's enough reason to ask the love of your life to marry you. Besides, I know that despite anything you will try to feed me, you want this as much as I do. And you want it painfully, pathetically, in-the-worst-cheesy-mushy-sugary-ball-less way, daydreaming about Sara wearing _the_ white dress more frequently than just about anything else in your entire life."

"Congratulations. I'm more than a little impressed by your new-found expressiveness. Now, are you finished? Because I certainly am with this insane conversation. Never mind, you've got it all wrong. What I want most for our lives is to get settled in a peaceful and quiet way before we decide to jump head straight into far more life-changing decisions, you know."

"It's a little bit late for that, don't you think, little bro? For heavens sake, you've got a kid on the way! And don't give me that '_I am freaked out'_ look, I know you are super-excited about it in that goofy, yay-I'm-gonna-be-a-daddy-soon way of yours, both of you are. Hell, you two managed to infect even me and LJ with your childlike enthusiasm! But forget that, that's off the point right now. I still don't get it Michael, what difference does it make if you marry her now, or in ten years time? We all know she is – and I quote - _'the one'_. So why wait?"

"You know very well why, Linc. Sara's life is already stressful enough as it is. I just don't want to add to that by rushing or pressuring her into anything she might not be comfortable with yet…"

"Don't say such a bulsh- … Wait, that's not it, is it?"

"I honestly don't know what you are talking about."

"Shit, you're scared she'll give you a big, fat '_No!'_ Admit it you little, yellow-belly chicken!"

"I'm not Linc! And I also don't see what's there to laugh about."

"Jeez Michael, how do you even manage to come up with such a _stupid_ thought in that supposedly ingenious brain of yours? That woman gave up _everything_ for you; she lost her job, her reputation, was on the run, sat in prison, went over a public and closely watched trial, killed a man and almost was killed in the process of…"

"…thanks a lot for reminding me…"

"…and _still_, all she does is blabber happily about something called _'diaper duty'_ while carrying the most goofy, silly, proud grin on her face!"

"That's not what I…wait, what? You really think she is…_proud_… of that?"

"Michael honestly, have you lost all your senses during your operation? You should have _seen_ her this morning; she was humming a freaking lullaby during breakfast without even noticing! …Not to mention she ate half the jar of marmalade, the very _last_ jar of marmalade just for your information, and when I tried to tell her that I…Hey, what are you chuckling about?"

"Nothing…"

"Ow, don't give me _that_, little brother! Spill out, what's so funny?"

"Nothing, really…only that I just realized that you are right, she _does_ like marmalade a lot…"

"Jeez, keep all the dirty details to yourself, ok?"

"Hey! I was implying nothing of that kind! Besides, since when are _you_ the prude out of the two of us?"

"I'm not the prude one, never was, never will be. But good try to deflect, little bro! Anyway, let's get back to business. Now, are you asking her to marry you or not?"

"No way Linc. Apart from everything else, I really think Sara doesn't feel we're there just yet…"

"Don't be a coward Michael!"

"Stop it, you're utterly insane Linc, I don't even have a ring!"

"Gosh, you know Sara as well as I do, Michael. She won't care about such, such…_fiddle-faddle_!"

"Ehm! So you call an engagement ring a _'fiddle-faddle_?"

"You are deflecting again, Michael. For Christ sake, just ask her! Go!"

"What?"

"I said _Go_! Go ask her!"

"_WHAT_?! You mean, like _now_?"

"No, I mean next Christmas, _of course_ I mean _now_!"

"I cannot ask her _now_, I need to prepare, I…"

"For crying out loud, I swear that if you won't do it, _I_ will!"

"Wait, stop, where are you going? What the hell do you think you're doing, Lincoln?!"

"What does it look like? I'm going to ask Sara if she will marry you. Although your chances will drop significantly once I tell her you were behaving like a wagtail even considering the notion."

"Don't be ridiculous, Lincoln!"

"_Me_? Really? Either way, one of us is about to ask her to marry you. You choose which one you want that to be, but consider the awkwardness level if you pick me."

"You are horrible, you know that?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Maybe."

"Not good enough."

"_OKAY_!"

"'_Okay'_ what?"

"Okay, I will do it! There, happy?"

"You have no idea, little bro."

"You can wipe that stupid grin off of your face, it makes you look like an idiot. And I hate you by the way, you know that?"

"That's the spirit! Now go!"

_----------------__30 minutes later------------------_

"So? How'd it go?"

"…"

"That bad, huh?"

"I told you it was a stupid idea…"

"No wait, _really_?"

"…"

"Gosh, I'm so sorry, Michael! I would never think sh-"

"…cause now we have to call Sucre and Alex right back, for the wedding is in two days time!"

"_WHAAAAAAT_?? Jeez, you nearly gave me a heart attack, you nasty little asshole of a liar! And _congratulations!_

"Thanks Linc. For giving me the right kick in the ass…"

"Oh, and here comes the lady of honor too. Congratulations Sara!"

"Thank you, Lincoln. Does this mean I get to call you my brother from now on, too?"

"Heh, you can call me whatever you want dear soon-to-be-sister-in-law, you can call me whatever you want!"

"Asshole?"

"Shut it, Michael, there's a pregnant lady in the room."

"You know I'm not a nice girl Lincoln, I don't mind."

"That's my girl!"

"Jeez, get a room you two."

----------*oOo*----------


	34. Another day on the run

**Name**: Another day on the run

**Characters**: Michael/Sara

**Genre**: het, angst, short-fic, hurt/comfort, general

**Rating**: pg-13

**Word count:** 460

**Thanks**: to spunkyar for the wonderful beta. :)

**Summary**: "_It's another day on the run, another day away from the relative sanctuary of the warehouse, another day that she is hurt in the endless danger that surrounds their lives." _

This is for tvalcoholic, a belated Bday gift. Hope you'll enjoy it. *hugs you tight dear*

**Another day on the run**

It's another day on the run, another day away from the relative sanctuary of the warehouse, another day that she is hurt in the endless danger that surrounds their lives.

Running away from the bullets that whistle around them, Sara stumbles at some point, falling hard to the ground before Michael has time to even register she is falling. In a matter of seconds, she is again on her feet and running, never minding the fact that half of her face is angry red and stained with blood. The mangled bloody mess of her chin starts right beneath her eye and stretches down to the very bottom of her jaw line, but she never even cries out an ounce of pain the entire time.

Later when they're back in the quite setting of the abandoned warehouse, Sara quickly disappears into the bathroom to get cleaned up. When she emerges again some time later, everything that is left of her injury is a group if vertical gashes and scrapes across the side of her face and an angry purple bruise that's just started forming along her jaw line.

While the rest of the warehouse's ensemble of thieves, criminals and victims of coincidence and chance discuss their day, curse words flying through the air like bullets of lead, Sara calmly withdraws from the group, seeking sanctuary in the tranquil quiet of her land locked boat.

As could only be expected, her pursuer isn't far behind. While he knows his company is nearly always welcomed, Michael proceeds with carefulness. It's been a tiring and stressful day and he doesn't want to crowd her. As he slowly climbs the boat steps, he also tries to convince himself that he's here to make sure she is alright; and that he is here for _her_ sake instead of his own.

She is sitting on her bunk, her eyes raised to his expectantly, her hands resting on the covers in what he knows by now is an invitation. So, with a comforting sense of familiarity, he sits down and looks sideways at the woman he claims to love unconditionally yet continues to endanger every single day.

His hand comes up to caress her cheek but stops just above her skin, his fingers trembling slightly while they hover over the damaged flesh.

"They will heal," she assures him, cradling his hand to her cheek and pressing his fingers more firmly against the angry cuts of her face, as if to prove to him that she isn't that easily breakable.

"I know." He says with a sigh.

What he doesn't say out aloud however, is that he is scared, scared out of his mind, that one day she may get hurt beyond the point of repair.

Xxx


	35. Vulnerable

**Name**: Vulnerable

**Characters/pairing**: Michael/Sara

**Genre**: non-epilogue compliant, double-drabble, POV, het, angst, general

**Rating**: PG

**Word-count**: 260 words

**Summary**: _Just a small double-and-a-g-half-drabble from Michael's POV on Sara's vulnerable side, not really plot-rich_.

**Dedication**: for marap, who created this wonderful comm (one_more_day) that inspires me to write and keeps the Michael and Sara spirit alive. Thank you mara, dear, even this little double-drabble was inspired by your awesome comm, specifically today's beautiful entry. *hugs*

**Vulnerable**

She _is _extremely vulnerable, but it's a fact Michael often tends to forget.

She is resilient, resourceful and tough. She can kick ass, her survival instinct is astonishing and she can live through nearly anything. Physically, she can endure hell and be born out of the ashes in an even more graceful form.

It's however, her emotional part that makes her extremely vulnerable, breakable, hurting. Some may call it weak, but it would be too simple and utterly inadequate to describe. Being this open and wearing her heart on her sleeve for everybody to see is an integral part of Sara, and it's exactly this part that's making her so unique, sets her apart from everybody else, the part that made him fall in love with her.

And this aspect of her is definitely not _weak_, Michael knows, on the contrary. Because let's face it, who of _us_ would willingly bare their soul to another human being like that, offer comfort and compassion so openly, generously, and still be able to walk away and try again after being disappointed for so many times in a row?

Michael doubts there are too many people walking the face of earth to be able to do what Sara Tancredi - now Scofield - does. She falls in love with you and then makes it her life quest to prove she is willing to do absolutely everything in order to make you happy.

And Michael cannot help but smile to himself, because he knows, knows first hand, that she indeed does. _Oh God, she does_.

xxx


	36. Then you would be wrong too

**Name**: Then you would be wrong too

**Characters/Pairing**: Michael/Sara

**Genre**: alternative/missing scene from 4x17, het, angst

**Rating**: PG-13

**Word count**: approx. 5000 words

**Summary**: _"Michael, he took the Company's deal to save your life. For what it's worth, I might've done the same thing."_ _"Then you would be wrong, too."_

**A/N**: There is this scene in 4x17 between Michael and Sara, that I completely hated in the means of how Michael dared to act towards Sara right after she saved him, once again, from the hands of the company. I though about this scene many times and I couldn't simply come to piece with it, so this is sorta my take on the situation, though I gave myself the liberty to change what happened afterwards.

Thank you dear spunkyar for the corrections, all remaining mistakes are, as always, mine.

_For mavoisine. Happy Birthday dear, and get well soon, okay? It__'s a bummer to be sick on one's own birthday. :) *kiss*_

**Then you would be wrong too**

" …_4500 miles to go."_

"_If we take turns sleeping, we could be there tomorrow night."_

"_Shall we call Lincoln? Let him know we're coming?"_

"…"

"_Michael, he took the Company's deal to save your life. For what it's worth, I might've done the same thing."_

"_Then you would be wrong, too."_

"_You know, this promises to be a really, really long drive, so how about we just…call truce, alright?"_

The words are sharp as a knife and twist into Sara's gut deeply and painfully. Not only does Michael voice his arrogant and superior opinion on exactly what he thinks of their endeavors to help him, but he even dares to close the whole situation by calling for truce that feels more like a slap in her face. The tone he uses with her is so unfamiliar, so cold and self-centered, that Sara has to think twice if it's really the man she loves sitting next to her.

She can feel his expectant, somewhat tired gaze on her, but she is so stuned and hurt that she isn't able to answer him right away. At least not answer him in a way he wants. His behavior towards her shocks and scares her, paralyzes her body to a point where she has to remind herself to just _breathe_.

From the way his body squirms in his seat and his focus returns to the road, she can tell he must have realized by now how much he's crossed the final line, but he won't acknowledge it. Then again, he might just be frustrated and angry with _her_ for not giving in; she doesn't understand him these days anymore. But she can't give in on this one, she _won't_.

She's already gulped down a lot of crap from him in the past few weeks, the majority of it due to his illness, at least she likes to think so. But this, this is something else. And there is no more tumor to possibly blame it on.

Realizing she hasn't moved much since he let his last verbal bomb drop, Sara tries to compose herself, her movements clumsy and slow, her breathing elaborate.

Michael watches her odd behavior out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't comment. He knows his words have hurt her bad, yet he cannot help himself. Furthermore, he doesn't even really feel regret over his words, at least not over what he said to her about saving his life.

_He's n__ot worth it_, _never_ _was__in the first place__._

"Forgot napkins," he sighs tiredly, his eyes never leaving the dashboard of their car.

As he walks back into the restaurant to retrieve a hand full of napkins he cannot help but feel anger rise in his chest. He cannot do this now, he cannot argue and fight with the very last person left to support him and his choices, too. But nor can he pretend that everything is fine and shiny between him and his brother – not to mention his '_mother_' – just for _her_ sake, and Sara should very well know that.

His angry and callous thoughts vanish once he gets back to the car and notices with a trace of concern furrowing his brow that Sara hadn't moved as much as an inch in her spot since he left to retrieve the napkins. In fact, she hadn't moved a single muscle ever since his unprovoked outburst and his call for truce in an attempt to resolutely finish their debate. He did succeed on that one, obviously, but at what cost? Only now does he truly see the implications of what he has caused by his ill-advised flare-up.

A strong jolt of guilt sweeps through him as Michael realizes - probably for the very first time since his operation - that he's not the only one who has gone through hell and back in the past couple of days. And only now does the obvious come to Michael and he starts to truly think back over the past couple of days while he boards the car. As far as he knows, he's been unconscious or sleeping most of this time, recovering from his break-down as well as the strenuous operation that ensued, yet he doesn't have the faintest idea what was Sara doing in this time. After all, she had been on her own, surrounded by Company agents, fretting for his life dependent on Company doctors.

A memory, not even a month old, comes to his mind. He's standing under the hot sun of Panama, his brother telling him the worst news of his life.

_She's dead Michael._

The memory is still fresh in his mind, a knife twitching in his chest whenever he remembers the time when his hope and faith had definitely been crushed. But his mind doesn't let him dwell too much on his, triggering another kind of thought instead, a thought where his brain immediately jumps to speculations about what _Sara_ must have gone through ever since his risky, unsuccessful attempt to retrieve Scylla from the Company's deadly clutches.

Had it been as hard for her as it had been for him? Because if it were at least half as painful for her as it had been for him, back behind the barbed wire of Sona, she must have gone through hell and back too. Again. And again, because of him.

With an even deeper shame in his heart, Michael realizes that until now, he didn't as much as _care_. He never took the time to ask her.

While he starts the engine and slowly guides the jeep out of the parking lot, he carefully starts to observe her. There are dark circles under her eyes, a glassy and unfocused look settling over her features. Her jaw is tightly set though. Also, with displeasure, Michael recognizes the fact that she is wearing the same clothes he has last seen her in before his treatment.

They drive in silence until they leave the last remnants of the city behind them. But once they hit the interstate, Michael cannot hold the silence any longer. His recent realization about his lack of information about the past couple of days, as well as his previous quiet observation of Sara's physical state, is reason enough for him to be the first to break the silence. It's the least he can do, definitely owing her that much.

"Maybe you should have some of the pizza and then try to rest. The drive will be long and we will have to take turns behind the wheel," he says, repeating his previous words, yet this time, his voice is soft again, gentle and caring.

"I'm not tired."

True, she doesn't sound tired to Michael. She sounds defeated, indifferent. Like she couldn't care less - about her, him, whatever. A tight lump forms in Michael's throat, his conscience painfully gnawing at his insides, but he trains his eyes back at the road. They continue their silent trip, the atmosphere in the car hot and sticky as the dusty, desert air outside the windows of their car.

A few minutes pass by until either of them speaks again, and Michael almost jumps in his seat when Sara speaks unexpectedly.

"Maybe we should switch now. I will drive and you can rest instead." Her voice is soft, but curt and a little bit cold. He misses it's warm, caring lilt. Maybe he had taken too much and too long for granted.

"I'm rested, thank you." He replies evenly, but something must be wrong with him, because he has a hard time literally squeezing the answer through his gritted teeth. He is riled again, mightily so, yet he cannot put his finger on the reason for these strange, confusing emotions currently raging inside his head.

"Are you?" asks Sara, receiving a confused look. "Rested, I mean," she amends, a hint of a challenge in her voice, and for the very first time since they entered the car, she throws him a look - a real 'Sara Tancredi the angry prison doctor not to be messed and fooled with' look. Strangely enough, it gives him comfort, though he knows what it means to be on the receiving end of such a penetrating stare.

He casts a quick glance at her before training his eyes on the road again. "From what I can remember, I've spent a fair couple of hours sleeping in a rather comfortable bed while being held by the Company," he starts in a milder, careful tone. She doesn't reply to his words, her eyesight returning back to quietly observing the side of the road.

"What about you?" there is even more tentativeness and trepidation in his voice this time. "Did _you_ get any sleep at all since we last saw each other?"

She doesn't answer, merely brings her hand up to brush away some errand strands of hair that have fallen into her face. Finally, she gives a small, non-commital shrug but doesn't say a word.

"What is that supposed to mean?" His tone is a little more bristle than necessary, but again, he cannot help himself, it's as if a puppet master pulled his strings and he was left to merely watch the outcome. This time, she doesn't as much as shrug. She is gazing out the window again, like he isn't even there.

"Alright," he says through clenched teeth, unable to stop the bitterness seeping from his voice. Angry and desperate to do something, to occupy his hands with something – _anything_ - he reaches for the carton of pizza, easing one hand off the wheel and using it to grab a slice. He wolfs down two pieces in a matter of seconds, not really caring for the taste of the very first food he had in quite some time. For all he cares, he could have chewed on the paper box and his mind probably wouldn't have noticed it.

Sara simply continues to stare quietly out the window looking disinterested of his presence, but her hands give her away. Her fingers curled into two tight balls in her lap, they are nervously twitching and twisting around each other. They are also slightly trembling, Michael notices, and he feels the instinctive urge to reach out and still them, bring piece to her obviously frayed mind.

He doesn't, but his tone is milder when he attempts to start a new conversation.

"I'm sorry about before. I shouldn't have said that."

Sara doesn't immediately respond and Michael starts to think she keep on ignoring him further, but then, in a voice he can barely hear, she speaks at last.

"That's right, you shouldn't have." The silence stretches between them anew, as sluggish and thick as the hot air outside the car.

"You meant it though, and that's what I am really upset about."

Michael doesn't reply, his silence serving as a confirmation of what they both know. He doesn't regret the opinion itself, just the words spoken out loud in a moment of anger. Anger, that's still burning under his skin for no real reason. He tries to direct his focus back on Sara instead, thinking what he would only give for _this_ – a change to merely speak to her one more time – not even a month ago. Instead, look at them now. They are switching between sarky remarks and giving each other the silent treatment. To be fair, he's given her plenty of reasons to behave that way towards him.

Despite his words spoken not long ago during a cell phone, something just doesn't add up. She is here, he is here, but there is also something that's standing in between. And Michael is slowly starting to get an idea of who's the one to blame for the problems in their relationship, if you still even can call what they have a one.

He curses under his breath, the invective leaving his lips louder than expected, before the palm of his hand suddenly comes up in a quick, harsh movement and he hits the steering wheel in an outburst of anger. However, he regrets his motion instantly upon watching Sara flinch out of the corner of his eye. She isn't used to outbreaks like that, especially from him. He can see his behavior truly scares her, and it just twist the dagger of pain and guilt further into his gut.

Immediately, Michael mutters a couple of apologies under his breath. The last thing on earth he wishes for is for Sara to fear him. God, fear _him_. The thought is almost unbearable.

"Are you sure you want to be the one to drive?" Sara utters uncertainly, the trace of fear distinguishable in her voice.

Michael sighs tiredly, suddenly drained, tired, feeling simply miserable and sorry. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just…" he lets out a heavy puff of air that seems to have been sitting in his lungs for ages, "…so _angry_. For no good reason. And I'm really sorry for letting it out on you." His voice truly showing signs of honest remorse. "I never wanted to lose my nerve in front of you like that. Please forgive me," he adds, his eyes momentarily leaving the road and wandering to look at her last. Sara doesn't reply, but he can see a familiar spark igniting her eyes, the warmness of hot chocolate at a cold winter evening returning to her hazel pools. She turns in her seat towards him, sudden interest brightening her face.

"It's your mom, isn't it?" she says softly, her eyes giving away sadness that seems too familiar and far older than Michaels' own. There is no doubt she is thinking about her own mother during her question, but her interest and concentration is still solely dedicated to Michael. Something in his chest shifts, and to Michael's astonishment, the most bitter part of his anger quickly starts to melt away only to being replaced by something far worse. Utter misery.

Ungluing his gaze from the road, he flashes Sara a quick glance before training his eyes again on the road.

She's hit the right nerve.

"I just cannot believe that…that for all these years I've been missing and mourning her, whereas she's been hiding out there somewhere, safe and sound and working for the company, no doubt trying to make the world a better place," he says bitterly, the last part of his words burning like acid in both of their ears.

Sara's expression softens and it makes Michael feel even worse. He doesn't deserve her compassion, not with the way he's been lately treating her.

"Michael…you don't know the whole story. Maybe…maybe they lied to you. It's not like they haven't tried to trick or mislead us before."

She is just trying to reason with him and put a balm of doubt over his pain, but the feel of betrayal fills his chest, already rooted deeply in his heart.

"No!_ She__'__s alive_ and she's never given a damn about her sons for all these years. Not even when the very people she was working for tried to frame and kill her son, or when her sons were being hunted down like animals by the very same people!" The words come quickly out of his mouth, hissed with spite and disgust. Blinded by his renewed rage, he fails to notice Sara's look or her touch, her attempt to soothe him by drawing gentle circles over the plane of his knee with her palm of her hand. When he doesn't respond or even acknowledges her touch, too lost in his thoughts no doubt, Sara decides to withdraw her hand.

"Yeah, maybe you are right." She utters, her eyes returning to the road again, pretending to watch the scenery.

He doesn't look at her. It is as if he wasn't listening to her at all. She withdraws even further from him, curling into a ball as if trying to disappear into her seat. She isn't seeing any of the passing scenery however, any of the wide expense of land and fields. Her mind is racing back, retrospectively, until it comes to the very beginning, to her very first memory of Michael on the day they met in her infirmary. It now seems like such a long time ago.

She wants to fight against the direction her thoughts are taking her and push them aside, back into the very far corner of her mind. Unsuccessfully, she's trying to convince herself that he's just miserable, and she is too, and _that's_ the only reason why a hole starts to crack open in her chest. But her tiredness is getting the better of her and she gives up her pretense that she's ok and that it's not fair of her to ponder her own needs when _he_ is the one broken and in pain.

Yet Sara is tired and she hurts too, and she cannot shoulder both of their burdens any longer. Slowly, her strength and resolve starts to crumble, the ground underneath her feet shifting before it vanishes completely, and she is finding the door of the room with her most frightening concerns open on it's own volition.

She knows she will be forced - at one point or another – to acknowledge the fact that Michael is different, _changed_. It worries her more than she is willing to admit. All this time, she's attributed the change in his attitude, in his character, to his medical condition. She counted that once the physical problem is resolved, the Michael she knew, the one that cared about other people and who took the time to shape a paper rose for his prison doctor in all the chaos and mayhem of his plan just to see her smile, would come back to her. Come back _for_ her.

Now however, she's starting to fear he won't.

"You should eat something, Sara."

She is so deep in her thoughts that his voice startles her, causes her to jump a little in her seat and turn her head toward him, wide eyed. She doesn't know how much time has passed since she got lost in her thoughts, maybe it were just moments, but it feels like it could have been hours.

Michael looks much calmer now, more self-composed and balanced. His eyes give out a gentle glow of warmth she hasn't see in quite some time, and this causes a tight lump form in her throat.

"What?" Sara manages to choke out dumbly at last.

"I said you should eat something, Sara," he repeats quietly, his eyes now frequently leaving the road to glance at her in concern. "You haven't eaten anything since…" his brow furrows, "When is the last time you've eaten anything, anyway?"

She can't resist him when his voice is this gentle and caring, despite her wish to stay distant with him in a way to show him how much such behavior hurts. Instead, she shuts her eyes in concentration, honestly trying to remember the last time she actually had the chance to force anything down her throat. She honestly doesn't remember. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Michael wince a little, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he asks another question.

"When's the last time you've slept?" Again, his voice is extremely gentle, the amount of care in it pulling at her heart. This time however, she keeps quiet on purpose. Daring to shoot a tiny glance Michael's way, she watches his jaw clench. It's not anger though, it's agony.

"You should eat something. Have a slice of the pizza. Please," he adds, pleading urgently, his eyes ungluing from the road to look at her. For the very first time since reuniting, he looks honestly worried. Worried for _her_. She feels a sudden flutter of hope, but then, the tiredness and stress of the past couple of days suddenly catch up with her too and the force of it presses her into the car seat, rendering her almost paralyzed. She feels more like sleeping then eating anything, least of all a pizza that's been resting on the front of their burning-hot dashboard for hours, but she doesn't want to fight anymore. God, she doesn't want to fight, she's too exhausted for that.

Tentatively, she takes the smallest slice and starts to force the pizza down her throat, agonizingly slow, piece after piece.

Five minutes later however, she is urging Michael to stop the car just in time to dart out and empty the contents of her stomach onto the dirt at the side of the road. She feels sick, uncontrollably dizzy and her head is violently spinning. Slowly she kneels down to steady herself and it's all she can do to force herself from passing out. While feeling the heat of the afternoon sun burning at the back of her neck, her hair keeps sticking to her clammy face and neck, droplets of sweat running down her spine. In spite of the heat thought, cold shivers are running down her spine.

All of a sudden there is something cool against the back of her neck, a hand, then the gentle touch is replaced by something harder and much cooler. A bottle of water, Sara realizes, closing her eyes and trying to breathe evenly, silently counting to ten and back in her head. Her hands are resting against her thighs, her stomach churning and burning excruciatingly. She is sticky with sweat and barely able to stay on her feet, but all she can concentrate on is the gentle and painfully familiar feel of Michael's cool hand pressing against her forehead, his fingers softly brushing some unruly strands of hair out of her face.

"Jesus," he murmurs, worry lacing his voice, "Easy Sara, take your time. Just _breathe_."

She does. After a couple of moments, the world seems to come to a halt at last. Sara straightens slowly, a relieved rush of breath leaving her lungs. Her sight involuntarily falls upon the mess in the dirt which only minutes ago used to be a slice of pizza. Surprisingly, she cannot help the tiniest of nervous chuckles leave her lips.

"That was close," she comments, finally daring to turn around to face Michael. There is no amusement in his expression though, merely worry on his face.

"You okay?" he asks, handing her the bottle of water, his hand coming to support her lower back as if afraid she might faint any moment. She nods tiredly, then takes a few wonderfully refreshing gulps.

"Yeah. The pizza probably didn't do much good on my empty stomach, that's all."

Michael nods but keeps observing her with concern. She takes another gulp of water, trying to bring her pulse and breathing under control. She can feel Michael's fingers against her forehead again and it does little to help settling down her quickly beating heart. He frowns and makes a dissatisfied humming sound in the back of his throat before urging Sara closer into a careful embrace before pressing his lips to her damp forehead.

"I think you are running a fewer," he utters worriedly against the side of her forehead, his hands coming to rest on her upper arms for support.

"I'm fine," says Sara, her tone brushing his worries away, yet she makes no movement to step out of his embrace.

"No, seriously Sara, I think you might be sick," he sounds really worried now.

"It's just from the stress and lack of rest and food." After a moment, she withdraws from their embrace and starts to return to their car.

"That's exactly what I'm worried about," she hears Michael mutter under his breath, the shaky tone of his voice prohibiting her from turning around to see the guilt in his eyes.

They return to the car and Michael starts the engine again, slowly ungluing the tires from the hot sand at the side of the road. They drive in silence, Sara resting against her seat with closed eyes and the window opened wide enough to let the wind cool her heated skin. She can feel Michael's gaze on her frequently now, but she keeps her eyes closed. She is so damn tired that she doesn't even notice once she starts dozing off.

Michael, on the other hand, is more alert than ever. His eyes switch between the road and Sara, and he craves for someone to slap him hard across the face for letting things get this far. All this time, he's been so wrapped up in his mother's betrayal and his brother's naivety that he could handle the Company alone, that he completely overlooked the unhealthy state Sara was in. Worse, he kept nagging and pushing her over the edge the whole time.

For all he knew, she may have been sick for days, yet all he seemed to care about these days was his irrational grudge towards a woman who was dead to him a long time ago. Instead he should been caring for a woman he recently almost lost and had been there for him from the day they met.

Silently using up all curses known to mankind in his head, his mind starts to think ahead. What will he do? How will they proceed if Sara is truly sick? Maybe it isn't anything serious at all, maybe Sara is right and she is just having a violent reaction to the sudden food ingestion. But there is always the possibility that she's really coming down with something serious, the worst case scenario - a scenario Michael refuses to acknowledge – being that she is simply starting to break under the pressure of it all. Nobody is built to sustain this much strain and stress in such a short span of time. And he simply cannot keep dragging her along with him when she's not feeling well, that's out of question. They're risking their lives in this and they need to be as healthy as possible to even stand a chance against their enemies.

Finally, Michael makes up his mind to give the matter some time before deciding anything. There is not much to do about the situation anyway. There is still a long drive ahead of them and all he can do is to try to spend as much time behind the wheel himself while caring for as much Sara as possible. Hopefully, she will feel better once they arrive in Miami. Most importantly, Michael silently prays she will be well enough once the time comes to run for their lives again.

It's almost dark when she opens her eyes again. They are still on the road, though she has no idea where exactly.

"Hey," she hears Michael's soft voice from the driver's seat and she instinctively turns her head towards him. "Feeling any better?"

She blinks the remnants of sleep away and slowly, carefully stretches in her seat, probing. She feels fine. Actually, she feels more than fine. She feels hungry. As if on command, her stomach rumbles with hunger, and a small apologetic smile escapes her lips as she shots an awkward glance at Michael. He flashes back the most radiant of his smiles and Sara feels her chest expanding with emotion like a balloon.

"Great. There are a couple of chocolate-chip muffins in the bag in front of you and a small bottle of milk," says Michael enthusiastically, pointing his look to the mentioned brown paper bag resting on the dashboard. Grabbing the bag eagerly and peaking inside, Sara's face lights up with a shocked smile.

"I never even noticed the car stopping," she utters in amazement while pulling out one of the muffins and sinking her teeth into it eagerly.

"Hey, carefully," warns her Michael hastily. "Minding your last encounter with food, let's take it easy, shall we?"

She stops abruptly and follows his advice, slowly nibbling at the delicious cake. Michael's voice grows more serious, a lace of regret weaving itself around his words.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to get you any real food. That's all they had," he says apologetically.

"This is great, really," says Sara through a mouth full of muffin causing Michael to smile broadly, his eyes shooting to the road for a short moment before returning to Sara again. She really looks much better than before. The breath he was holding leaves his lungs in a quick rush of relief.

Michael's lips twitch in amusement when watching Sara taking a rather unladylike gulp from the bottle of milk. She rests her hand on Michael knee then, squeezing it gently, an innocent gesture of gratitude no doubt. Yet the muscle her hand is covering twitches under her touch, and her heart leaps with joy at the involuntary reaction. The lump is in her throat returns with Michael's eyes burning themselves fiercely into her own. It should probably worry her he isn't dedicating the majority of his attention to the driving, but she's missed his presence – his _real_ presence, body and soul and touch and heart – for so long that she really couldn't care less about his driving right now. He is after all, a genius, so he can surely concentrate on two things at once.

His hand finds hers resting on top of his tight and he intimately intertwines their fingers squeezing tightly, lovingly. It's not the physical contact that sends Sara over the edge however, causing moisture to press itself into her eyes on its own volition. No, it's the emotional bond, the bond she was earlier so scared they'd lost, that's now present - _again_ - in every fiber, every movement of Michael body. As it once had, he's radiating warmth, love and care, his mind tuned again to her every thought, every feeling, every need.

And just like that, Sara is again buzzing with energy, generated solely by love, faith and hope.

**End**


	37. Her Ultimate Agenda

**Name: **Her Ultimate Agenda

**Characters: **Sara Tancredi/mentions of Michael Scofield

**Genre**: POV, gen, het, dark-fic, angst, 'added scene'

**Rating: **PG-13

**Word Count**: approx. 1000 words

**Summary: **_Michael gets sicker with every new day, every passing minute, each new-drawn breath. And despite her most desperate efforts, there is not a single damned thing she can do to stop it. __So__ she is left to__ simply__ watch helplessly, while the man she loves keeps on destroying himself without a second thought, his mind solely, pathologically fixed on his single ultimate goal._

**A/N: **There is again, a scene near the middle of S4, that completely shatters my heart. And every time I see the screencaps or watch the scene itself, I feel like screaming or smacking Michael hard across the face for the way he is treating the woman he is supposed to love unconditionally. So here are my thoughts, put together from Sara's POV.

**Her**** Ultimate Agenda**

Michael has only one agenda. It's a simple one to explain, yet an almost impossible one to accomplish.

_Bring the Company down. _

There was a time when that was her agenda too. Or part of it, surely; but it's not anymore. Now, she has only one goal in her life. To ensure she won't be left completely alone in the world of six billion people.

So far, the state of Michael's matter is at a fifty-fifty chance. He may still get killed in his pursuits, yet there is a possibility he could succeed in the end.

The state of _her_ agenda? Miserable. She is losing, utterly and completely failing in her task. Michael gets sicker with every new day, every passing minute, each new-drawn breath. And despite her most desperate efforts, there is not a single damned thing she can do to stop it. So she is left to simply watch helplessly, while the man she loves keeps on destroying himself without a second thought, his mind solely, pathologically fixed on his single ultimate goal. She tries to intervene, of course, tries to convince him to let go just a little bit, loosen the grip on his fixation the slightest bit and slow down his pace in order to see reason at last.

But he doesn't make it any easier for her, of course. He is stubborn, impossible and fighting her, all the while being completely ignorant of her only need for _him_, oblivious of the fact that her very survival depends on his own.

She is scared out of her mind at the thought of being left behind, of being left completely alone. No family, no friends, no love, and not a single person left to care if she breathes another day. She knows she wouldn't be able to survive that, she's always been a person dependant on social interactions, on relationships of any kind. She doesn't do 'lonely' good. That's what had driven her to drugs in the first place - loneliness. Solitude of her life with not a person to care about her.

Of course, one might argue she could get that back, could rebuilt her life, make new relationships, find new friends. However, she is too exhausted by this point of her life to even consider such a notion. She's been to hell and back in the past few months, and she lacks the energy to hope that one can rebuilt everything they've lost. Besides, how can you start to rebuild something when to gain what you once had, has taken nearly thirty years to establish in the first place?

No, that's definitely not a path for Sara to walk, and therefore, _this_ is the ultimate lottery. Either she wins or loses completely, no shades of grey involved. There is either her, _with_ Michael, surviving, or that is the end to the both of them, no matter how pitiable it may sound to her own ears. She is tired of pretending, tired of playing the tough one. She never was one like that in the first place. On the emotional level, she's always been a wreck, _damaged goods_. Not fixable, never completely fixable, but pretty well workable, with the right treatment and care of course. The care of a man she is currently missing on every possible level of interaction.

So when he once again pushes her away, rejects her help or ignores her pleas, she feels the abyss coming a little bit closer, and she nearly welcomes it. In her darkest hour, she is deeply hurt to think that Michael probably cares about as little for her life as he does for his own. How else could she explain his careless behavior to his own health, when he surely knows how interconnected their ultimate faiths are, she's made herself clear on that on several occasions.

_Nothing is going to come between us._

Whether that be circumstances, enemies, or death. Her father would probably be utterly disdained by such Shakespearean thoughts on his daughter part, because Frank Tancredi has never been a quitter. That's why it stings and burns so much when remembering his death was marked a suicide. That stain - no matter if cleaned in the end - will never completely disappear.

She sends a silent plea to her father to forgive her, for she had sinned. Brought up in religion - never minding she never truly believed in God she was taught to revere - she is seriously considering the ending of her life.

Her only extenuating circumstance is that she doesn't think of termination in the classical sense of the word. She is not thinking about suicide, about taking an overdose of morphine or jumping off a cliff. She is simply thinking in the realms of not being able to exist in a world without a single person caring about her.

Little does she know that Michael, always the planner, has already taken care of that – albeit unintentionally and completely coincidentally. Not even a master planer like him could have come up with a scheme like this, a design of faith itself. A formula in which - even if the most dark case scenario would come to being - there would actually exist one person, a tiny and extremely vulnerable one, whose presence would mean everything to Sara, and vice versa. The existence of a person that would love and cherish her each word, each caress, each smile, unconditionally.

A beloved child - the reason for almost any woman to live. It's an instinct as old as mankind itself.

As for now, however, Sara isn't aware of this precious piece of information. And so the only thing left for her is to pray to a God she doesn't believe in, and try with all her might to do absolutely _anything_ in order to keep Michael alive, whether her endeavors are welcomed or not. Because no matter if he likes it or not, they're a part of her very own survival instinct too.

xxx


	38. A Hero's Weakness

**Name:** A Hero's Weakness

**Characters/Pairing:** Michael/Sara

**Rating:** PG-13

**Word count:** approx. 1200

**Genre:** non-epilogue compliant, het, humour, fluff, pinch of crack

**Summary:** _„It's not easy to be a hero's wife. But one of the most important rules to follow__, Sara knows, is to be attuned to the hero's needs even before he himself knows what he is missing."_

_This is for_ _spunkyar and spoiled_andrea, whom I promised a Christmas fic. Girls, I am so so sorry for this taking so long and being rather late for the holiday season, but I still hope you'll enjoy. :) Since your prompts were so alike, I thought you might not mind to share this together. After all, Christmas is all about sharing, isn't it?;)_

**A**** H****ero's ****W****eakness**

It's not easy to be a hero's wife. But one of the most important rules to follow, Sara knows, is to be attuned to the hero's needs even before he himself knows what he is missing.

And so when Michael's restless frame roams the kitchen for the fourth time in the past couple of hours, aimlessly yet vigorously going through all the cupboards and shelves, Sara already knows what has to be done.

To be honest, she's never actually done it before, and it will probably turn out to be a time-consuming matter with a tricky and not at all certain outcome. Yet since they are snowed-in inside their cabin for at least a couple of days either way, it's an occupation as good as any, even if the odds for a possible good outcome are standing rather badly.

Coming back to her surroundings, Sara has to suppress a smile when Michael - still somewhat distracted - approaches her, first pressing a soft kiss upon her lips, then bending lower to kiss the bump of her belly. Murmuring something about feeling slightly edgy and discomforted for no good reason, probably _"just due to the familiar unpleasant feeling of being 'caged-in'"_, he retreats quietly into the bedroom to supposedly read a book. Despite his discomfort and nervousness however, and to Sara's immense amusement, he doesn't pass a chance to hang a playful invitation for her to join him in their bed.

Truth to be said, she loves to spend as much time with him as possible, yet this time, she doesn't follow suit. Because as tempting as his proposal might be, Sara knows that a round of hot let-off-steam sex is not what Michael needs right now. Although on second thought, Sara thinks with a fair dose of mischievous amusement, it might as well be the next best thing.

For now, however, her need for _him_ must wait, because Sara knows without a doubt in her mind that Michael has a bigger itch to scratch. Although, he _might_ argue with her on that last part.

She secretly laughs at her last thought, but has to admit it's the truth. Ever since they've finally been given the gift of time, Michael has proven to be almost insatiable of human contact with her, in any shape or form. And Sara, God bless her, can't say she is the least bit sorry, for it feels so wonderful to be loved and cherished and spoiled for a change, and the past couple of months with Michael have been just as that.

Yet now, there is another matter on Sara's mind. She knows he's been lying to her before. Well, maybe not technically lying, but not being completely honest with her either, for she knows perfectly well that her husband doesn't currently feel 'caved-in', in any sense of the word. In fact, it was exactly the quietness, the serenity and remoteness of this place that made them choose it to spend their very first Christmas as a couple – well, a trio, Michael might argue – at last.

They were also well aware of the possibility that this might happen, the owner warned them about the possible day-long snow-in. Michael only rubbed his hands excitedly back then, smiling broadly at her with his eyes twinkling in excitement, his mind already making plans to properly prepare for such a scenario. Now, two weeks later, the spacious cabin couldn't be better stocked with anything they might need, from food through wood and some worth-wile entertainment material like books and cards and even board games her husband was so keen on teaching Sara to play. They were, in fact, so well stocked, that Sara was pretty sure they could survive on their supplies not just for a couple of days, but the whole of the winter. And yet, after a couple of days, Sara had come to a realization that there was indeed, one thing that Michael forgot to count on – his sweet-toothness.

As ridiculous and petty as it may sound, Sara had found out that even heroes suffer under one of the most common human weaknesses, the need for sweets. Perfunctorily packing just a narrow amount of some chocolate bars and a rather small pack of candy, their scoop was quickly consumed, predominantly after a series of naughty bed sessions, the thought of which made Sara smirk and blush madly even now.

All in all, one must admit - Sara thinks with a trace of amusement - that forgetting to pack enough sweets for a long winter cabin trip can always be considered a rather huge mistake, especially when there is A) a teenager, or B) a pregnant lady - on board. Their case being the second one, the irony that it is her husband and not her to suffer under food cravings, is not lost to Sara.

So with a smile, she gets up from her comfortable seat in the huge armchair in front of the cracking fireplace, and makes her way to the kitchen in search of a cook book.

One hour later, the delicious smell of freshly baked cookies starts to tease Michael's senses, his head dozing on the cover of the never opened book, only to wake and lure him into the kitchen in a curious search for the irresistible source of heavenly smell.

Finding his pregnant wife – _wife_, the word still sends a warm, tingling sensation throughout Michael's whole body – in the small kitchen, holding a plate of hot cookies and wearing her most radiant smile on her face, cheeks healthily flushed with the effort of the task as well as the heat and simple joy, Michael doesn't have a hard time figuring out why it's not just his mouth – but his eyes too – that water.

With a whole new rhythm to his heart, he makes his way over to her, first taking the warm plate from her hands, then kissing her in a way that leaves them both breathless.

"Since when do you bake cookies?" he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into her hair, not ready to let go of her intoxicating smell just yet, breathing in the wonderful heady mixture of baked cookies, vanilla shampoo and simply her.

"Ever since you've been behaving like a crazy man pacing the cabin in search for something sweet," she smiles at him knowingly. "So I thought I would give it a try."

He gives her a sheepish look, accompanied by a slightly apologetic smile. "You know me too well."

Taking a cookie from the plate, he takes a bite, noticing she is watching him with nervous anticipation. He takes his time, letting the still hot bite wallow in his mouth, before he lets out a satisfied hum, the broadest smile lighting up his whole face.

"You are gonna make an awesome mom," he whispers before dipping his head lower to steal another kiss from her. Right before their lips meet, he can feel her smile too.

~~~oOOoOOo~~~


	39. The price to pay

**Name**: The price to pay

**Characters**: Michael/Sara

**Genre**: POV, het, non-epilogue-comliant

**Rating**: PG

**Word** **count**: approx. 750

**Spoilers**: S02E01-02

**Summary**: _"There is a way to make all of this right", he's written her. He has to believe it, has to have faith, because hope, no matter how fleeting, is the only thing that's currently keeping him going._

**The Price to Pay**

_She will be okay_, he tells himself with fierce conviction. He knows she will feel used, misled and lied to. His heart lurches. But once she finds the crane, he tries to tell himself, _once she finds the crane_, she will know he hasn't been fooling her, will know it _hasn't_ been all an act. She will know that he cared - that he _still_ cares - far more than he could ever have allowed himself to or anticipated in the first place.

_She will know, w__on't she?_

He tells himself all these things while driving away in a car full of escaped convicts.

_Right._

Gazing out the dirt-smeared window, Michael has a hard time convince himself of the truth behind his thought. How can he then expect _her_ to believe it, when he himself has a hard time believing his own words? Glancing to the front of the car, it's only the sight of his brother, well and breathing and still alive, that gives his lurching heart at least some kind of consolation.

He had todo what he did, he _had to _ask her for help, there simply wasn't another way to break his brother free, to save his innocent life. But even knowing what he knows, it's a small comfort. He lied to her. On many occasions, that's without question, but the last lie went far deeper, and would cut too deep.

During their last heated conversation, he very conveniently omitted the fact he and Lincoln weren't breaking out _alone_. He misled Sara to believe she was breaking the rules to save the lives of an innocent person and his rescuer only. Instead, there were six more men on the loose as well, few of them extremely dangerous. One of them crazy, one the former head of the mob, but those were nothing in comparison to the worst of them all, T-bag.

_How would that make her feel?_ He wasn't sure he really wanted to know and what kind of man that made him.

He left her the crane, hastily stuffed in the depths of her handbag he found in one of the infirmary drawers, hoping this to be the safest way for her to find it. No doubts she must have left her purse there accidentally when she left work in haste that day, probably too distraught and scared to break one of the most fundamental rules of her job to remember to take her purse with her.

_All f__or him_.

The thought is fleeting and involuntary, literally jumping into the focus of his wandering mind, nearly making his stomach flip with disgust over himself. To feel a flutter of happiness - of sick satisfaction - under such circumstances makes him a man he doesn't want to become.

_She did it for Lincoln_, he amends resolutely, his mind forcefully correcting the gentle whisper of his heart, of his _desire_.

She did it so an innocent man, who happens to be his brother, could live. What it will have cost her he doesn't want to think about right now. It would be too time consuming, too painful, and would claim too much of his attention and input he now has to direct to the matter at hand, their escape. They're nowhere near making it just yet, in fact, Michael knows they will call themselves lucky if they survive another twenty four hours but still, Michael cannot stop but wonder.

_Will she come?_

"There is a way to make all of this right", he's written her. He has to believe it, has to have faith, because hope, no matter how fleeting, is the only thing that's currently keeping him going.

Hope, but also something more elusive, more tangible, more rich. Something that is interconnecting his mind and heart and soul all into a single, bittersweet and aching mess. Something that he knows is strongly connected to the smell of antiseptic and the sting of a sharp against his skin, to a white lab coat that's hiding graceful and soft curves, a gentle touch of warm, soothing fingers and a cascade of the softest copper hair. Something that has him yearning and longing in a way he never thought possible.

And something Michael's afraid he's already lost, _traded_ for his brother's freedom. It was the right thing to do, to save Lincoln, Michael is sure of that. Yet it doesn't stop the hollow feeling spreading throughout his chest, the black hole growing bigger with every mile the car takes him away from _her_.

~~**o**~~


	40. Making Good on Promises

**Name**: Making good on Promises

**Fandom**: Prisonbreak

**Characters/Pairing**: Michael/Sara, Michael Jr, mentions of Lincoln

**Genre**: het, fluff, family, non-epilogue-compliant

**Rating**: PG, I guess

**Word** **count**: approx. 750

**Spoilers**: 4x22

**Summary**: _He once said to her: "I want you to know, I am going to be a hands-on daddy." He wants to make good on his promises._

**A/N**: For martinibaby, cuz she's currently being there.:) *hugs*

**Making good on Promises**

The baby's cries grow with every step he takes towards the nursery and he hastens in his stride. He flicks the lights on and stands next to the crib, his eyes directly on the red-faced baby helplessly flailing his hands in the air.

Making hushing sounds he picks him up, cradling his son against his naked chest. The cries still for a moment, then start anew with an even bigger urgency.

"Hey, hey buddy," he coos, one hand cradling the baby, the other running soothing patterns on the baby's back. "I know you're hungry, just give daddy a moment, okay?"

The baby doesn't seem to agree, the desperate cries pulling at Michael's heart. He knows it's silly, knows it's the only way babies can communicate with their parents, by crying, yet the heart-wrenching sound still causes him to move quicker.

Arriving in the kitchen, the baby still crying against his shoulder, he carefully prepares the formula, meticulously measuring the amount of powder against the amount of needed water.

"There there," he tries to sooth in between, "we're nearly done."

The moment the bottle is offered to the baby, the little guy catches the dummy between his toothless gums, grabbing the bottle greedily with both of his tiny hands. For a long moment, nothing can be heard except the sounds of very loud and very quick sucking.

The baby drinks, but his eyes are fixed on his father. And while Michael makes his way to the nursery to sit down with his now happy son, he nearly gets lost in a gaze that reminds him so much of his own.

Sighing contentedly, he comes to rest in the rocking chair, observing, stroking, talking to their child, their firstborn.

With a final '_SUCK!_' the bottle is empty within minutes and the baby sleepy again. Cradling the boy against his shoulder he wait for the final burp to come, his face spontaneously stretching into a wide grin upon hearing the loud noise. Lincoln would be proud.

Giving the baby another few minutes until completely sure he is sound asleep, he flicks off the light and makes his way back to their bedroom. The curtains are moving slowly in the light breeze of the night, the salty air filling his nose.

When his eyes fall onto the bed where he had left Sara's side less than thirty minutes ago, he doesn't know whether to be amused or confused. In the end, he settles on a mix of both.

She still appears to be soundly asleep. Her frame is hidden under the light covers, yet she is sprawled throughout the whole bed, arms and legs spread in all directions. He doesn't know what to make out of it.

Just as he wonders how to crawl into bed next to her without actually waking her, she gives a slight move, then a low sigh.

"Is everything alright?" Her voice is groggy, full of sleep, yet the sight of her long legs - toes peeking out from underneath her covers - and her tousled hair has the power to spike his blood. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He is a patient man.

"Yes, everything is alright, go back to sleep."

She gives a small nod, her eyes still closed. She doesn't move to her side of the bed thought.

"Uhm Sara?" he asks uneasily, his eyes roaming the bed in vain search for a spot he could use as an entrance to their shared sanctuary.

"Uh-huh?" there is now a tint of amusement in her voice, betraying her sleepy state to be partly faked.

"What exactly are you doing?"

She lays still for a couple of moments then one corner of her mouth starts to twitch. Curling upwards in the end, a big grin spreads across her face.

"What does it look like, Scofield? I'm keeping your side of the bed warm until you get back, of course." She chirps, her eyes still closed yet the tiredness momentarily gone from her voice.

Having to work hard to hold the laughter trying to escape his throat he climbs into the bed, never minding whether he wakes her or not anymore. Reaching for her he seizes her upper body, gently dragging her up to rest against his chest. She merely gives a sigh on content, her arms sneaking around his torso. He keeps smiling then presses his lips against her crown, whispering into the darkness.

"Told you I was going to be a hands-on daddy, didn't I?"

END

_Any thoughts to share? :)_


	41. Small step for a boy

**Name:** Small step for a boy...

**Fandom: **PrisonBreak

**Characters/Pairing:** Michael/Sara, Michael Jr., one mention of Linc

**Genre:** het, non-epilogue-complaint, fluff, humour, silly (is that even a category?)

**Rating: **PG

**Word count:** approx. 1700 words

**Summary:** _Her hand still rests upon his chest, her face hovering slightly over his. "He will be fine," she reassures him soothingly._

A birthday present for **eight8toes** who gave **this prompt:** _Michael Jr's first day of school and Michael and Sara__'s reaction to that.__ Non-epilogue compliant :)_

**Small step for a boy...**

„I cannot sleep," he groans in annoyance and a trace of anger at himself, his forearm flying to cover his face. There is a tired sigh from beside him and then a hand crawls up his chest, stroking it soothingly.

"You know," she starts, her voice strangely erotic in its sleepy huskiness, "I would understand if _he_ couldn't sleep. But as far as I can tell _he_ is sleeping like a baby."

"But that's just it, isn't it?" he says slightly irritated. "Maybe we should have waited another year. He is only just over five and the other kids will be at least a year older. And he also isn't very tall or muscular. Children can be cruel and if somebody-"

"Michael!" she says in a raised voice. The sound surprises him and finally breaks through his rant. She must have called his name several times, for there is a slight frown on her face, a cute pout gracing her rosy lips.

When she looks him in the eye however, she is calm and serene again. Her hand rests upon his chest, her face hovering slightly over his. "He will be _fine_," she reassures him soothingly.

"First, he is five and a half. And second, there is simply no point in waiting any longer. The pre-school teachers as well as the school's psychologist said it themselves. He's way ahead of his class and he's already getting bored. He is also emotionally advanced above the average children his age. And last and foremost, he is _so_ happy and excited to go to school himself. So why do you doubt him?"

"I don't doubt him," he retorts grumpily, his voice a little bit hurt. "It's just…" he stops, his fingers slowly crawling up the soft skin of her back, distracting her with the delicate patterns he is drawing over the bumps of her scars. She can barely remember them these days.

He still hasn't continued and although she enjoys his touch very much, she presses the subject just a little. "It's just what?"

"What if the other kids won't like him? What if he doesn't make friends?" he asks, his eyes boring into hers. There is something deep there, a secret worry hidden in a dark corner she tries to access but has failed to yet explore.

"He is a bright, sweet, generous and funny little boy, why wouldn't anybody like him?" she asks, something telling her this goes deeper than their son going to school for the very first time in the morning.

His gaze wanders off, eyes dropping to stare at his chest as if looking for something that's not there.

"His name is Michael…" her husband utters quietly and for a second, she cannot understand what he is getting at.

"So what? It's a beautiful name…" she stops abruptly, "_Oh…_"

He knows they are at the same page now. His eyes close, his forehead painfully creasing.

"He wears my name," he concludes unnecessarily. There is a moment of silence then he feels his wife's hands - as gentle as ever – cradle the sides of his face.

"It's a great name indeed," she says, a soft sigh escaping her lips. He still hasn't opened his eyes yet. "And your son is very proud to wear it, you know that," she tells him, waiting for him to open his eyes before she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And so am I," she adds in a murmur, pressing her lips against his at last.

"Besides, I've always wanted my surname to start with the same letter as my name," she says with a hint of amusement, finally scrounging a small smile from him. "_Sara Scofield_," she pronounces each word with a pinch of dreamy drama to her voice, "now that sounds like a match made in heaven, don't you think?" She has him smiling at her fully now.

"Well, it _has_ a nice ring," he says with a hint of mischief, then kisses her chastely, first her lips and then her hand, before he presses another one just over the wedding band that has been resting on her finger for over six years now.

She sighs contentedly, bringing the side of her face to rest against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"He is going to be fine," she says again, returning to their previous topic, her voice deep and soothing, almost tranquil. He loves it when she talks like that. And she knows it.

His chest rises then drops with a deep sigh. "I know," he utters. "I guess I _am_ a little overprotective."

A low chuckle rumbles against the skin of his chest. "Just a little, 'eh?"

He smiles sheepishly, thankful she cannot see in the darkness how the blood rises to flush his cheeks crimson.

"Now sleep," she commands, pressing a final kiss to his lips, nestling against his frame once again.

The next morning, he has trouble eating his breakfast while his son excitedly blabbers over his bowl of chocolate cereal, twittering to his mother about this and that. She is patient with him, a quality Michael always found extremely captivating about her.

They drive to the school in silence - well, in fact it's only Michael who's silent, for his son hasn't stopped jabbering about his new school bag, pencils and notebooks and sneakers and other things the entire drive. In his excitement, he is telling his mom and dad what he will do first thing they arrive at school and how he plans on sharing his bag of sweets they packed for him with all of his new classmates.

Sara merely smiles, an encouraging expression on her face, whereas Michael can barely gulp down his frayed nerves.

Once arriving at the school, they walk him to his new classroom, but still their son shows no signs of fear or hesitation in what's coming next. Surprisingly, the little boy has less reserve about leaving his parents behind than they do. Sara kneels down to his level, stroking his head protectively, lovingly, before plastering a big kiss against her son's cheek despite the five-year-old desperately trying to escape the public display of affection. She merely chuckles, but deep down, Sara realizes with a sad pang in her chest that her baby boy is not a baby anymore.

His father instead pats him on the shoulder before giving him a quick, one-shouldered hug and gently bumping his fist in a way his Uncle Linc does.

Before they know it, their son is off into the classroom already starting to make new friends as he walks over to his cubie. They hover for a moment at the door simply watching him, expecting him to turn at least one last time to wave them goodbye, but the little boy is already at the back of the class showing something to a boy standing next to him on the huge spinning globe.

As they leave the school behind them walking hand in hand towards their car, with the intent to drive some place nearby to grab a cup of coffee or have an early lunch until their son's first day of school is over, Michael is finally able to let out the long rush of breath.

"You were right Sara, I don't know why I was worried so much in the first place. He is going to be just fine," he smiles, stealing a glance at his wife. She doesn't reply, and only now does he notice she isn't even looking at him, her head unnaturally turned in the other direction. She's been too still and quiet ever since they've left the school, but only now does he realize it, only once his own insecurities are gone for good.

"Sara?" he asks carefully, stopping in his tracks and tugging at her hand. She stops as well, but she still won't look at him, her face stubbornly turned the other way. Then she lets out a deep, heart-wrenching sob.

It takes only a fraction of a second for him to comprehend, then a grin slowly starts to steal across his face before he can stop it.

"Of dear, don't tell me you're crying," he lets slip with in low chuckle before he gently forces her to turn towards him. He has to recline his neck in order to look into her bowed face properly.

The lovely features of his wife's face are streaked with tears, even more escaping her eyes as she gives him a look of utter misery. A bubble of laughter threatens to erupt from his chest but then she is reprimanding him with a stern look, her hand slapping his chest before it comes to rest there to steady herself.

"Oh, shut up!" She masters to bark out before breaking into a sobbing heap in front of him.

He does as he is told, taking mercy on her and embracing her instead, tucking her tightly and securely against his chest. She hides her face against his shoulder, the wetness of her eyes coming into contact with the skin of his neck as he rocks them back and forth, a slow smile playing across his lips all the while.

"I'm afraid the main storyline behind Finding Nemo is still escaping us, huh?" he says softly, his light joke helping when he feels as well as hears her barky laugh against his shoulder.

"He will be fine," he tells her soothingly, his hands gently dancing over her back.

"I know," she whispers back in a reiteration of their conversation from the night before.

"Now c'mon, let's go and have a cup of coffee," he pauses, "Or lunch."

She snickers then nods, finally untangling from his solid frame a bit unsteadily. He gently wipes away the remaining tears from her face and carefully smoothens out her soft red hair, all the while giving her an earth-shattering smile. God, how he only loves this woman.

"Maybe we can share a happy meal," she quips, a small twinkle appearing in her eye and he cannot help but laugh out loud.

"Alright, but you gotta let me keep the toy," he jokes back with a raised finger as if to make a point.

"Deal."

END

_A/N: Comments are love._


	42. Want

**Name**: Want  
**Fandom**: Prisonbreak  
**Characters**/**pairing**: Michael/Sara  
**Genre**: drabble, pwp, smut, romance, het, missing scene, pov  
**Rating**: pg-13, I guess  
**Word count**: 100  
**Spoilers**: S01E05-06

**Prompt** **b****y**: martinibaby1 , who wanted _Michael/Sara while they were in the crawl space above the infirmary (riot)._

__**Want**

He uses their rest in the crawling space secretly observing her, convincing himself that his motives strictly concern the plan.

A thin layer of sweat covers her neck, a single droplet running down before disappearing in her cleavage.

He gulps, unconsciously licking his lips.

This is no time or place to have inappropriate thoughts about her, still he draws closer. He feels her radiating heat, sees her heaving chest upon taking hasty gulps of air.

And Michael can't but imagine her under a different set of circumstances, where _his_ name leaves her lips in a desperate, begging moan of lust.

xxx

_Thoughts? Lemme hear them._


	43. Snowflake

This fic is the first from my **'asking for prompts' post a couple of weeks ago**. Sorry it took so long. The rest to come soon, hopefully.

**Name**: Snowflake  
**Fandom**: Prisonbreak  
**Characters**/**pairing**: Michael/Sara  
**Genre**: drabble, non-epilogue-compliant, romance, het  
**Rating**: pg  
**Word count**: 101

**Prompt** **by: **luv_faith_dream who asked for: _Michael/Sara, some fluff, and snow and non-epilogue-compliant_

**Snowflake**

The first flakes of the coming storm fall to the ground yet neither of them notices, not before a lonely white piece of wintery art lands on her nose. Sara scrunches her face, the cold wetness tickling her skin.

He smiles at her expression, then leans closer, kissing the offending snowflake away. The cold sensation suddenly replaced by the feel of his hot breath upon her face, warm lips caress her senses before he ends the affectionate gesture in an eskimo kiss.

"Let's get you home," he offers to his pregnant wife and she has to smile sweetly at his care.

xxx


	44. Secret

**Name:** Secret

**Characters/Pairing:** Michael/Sara

**Genre:** drabble, non-epilogue compliant, het, future!fic

**Rating: **PG

**Word Count: **100 words

**A/N: **_For everybody, who still enjoys reading PB fics._

_**Secret**_

She finally realizes, she was always looking simply for a guy who'd love her back. Now she has him, the feeling can get too overwhelming sometimes.

Like now, watching him cradling their newborn back to sleep. His back turned to her, his voice is soft and kind, yet she can distinctly hear his words. They bring tears to her eyes, making her chest swell.

"So _Michael_ it is, huh? I have to say, I wasn't for it at first, but mommy insisted. And between you and me, I simply can't refuse your mom. _Anything_. I love her too damn much."


	45. Smitten

**Name:** Smitten

**Characters/Pairing:** Michael/Sara

**Genre:** non-epilogue compliant, het, fluff, humour

**Rating: **PG

**Word Count: **333 words

**Summary: **_Her terrified __cry makes him drop whatever he's been doing, the legs of the wooden crib he's been working on momentarily forgotten when he rushes to the kitchen in search for her._

**A/N: **_For Rosie_Spleen, who gave me the idea for this, although she probably doesn't even know.:) Whoever saw that spider however, must really respect her for not panicking. You've got my deepest respect, woman!_

_**Smitten**_

"MICHAEL!"

Her terrified cry makes him drop whatever he's been doing, the legs of the wooden crib he's been working on momentarily forgotten when he rushes to the kitchen in search for her.

He finds her in the corner, one hand protectively resting on her huge pregnant belly, the other holding her mouth in horror.

"It's right there!" she finally says, pointing one shaky hand to the ground near their backyard door, and that's when he sees it – a huge, hairy spider.

"Get it away, please!" Sara whimpers, her eyes huge with fright and disgust.

It takes him a second to process what just happened. This being an unknown fact to him up to this point, it seems that his young wife - despite _everything_ they've been through - is deadly afraid of harmless spiders.

He cannot help but chuckle at the situation in front of him before taking the kitchen towel, using it to gently scoop the still spider up. He leaves the house for a moment to drop the poor creature off carefully in the very back of their backyard.

When he returns back into the house, he finds Sara leaning heavily against the kitchen counter, her hands covering her face in a mixture of relief and mortification.

Crossing the room, he envelopes her into his arms, bringing her head to rest against the crook of his neck, pressing a soft kiss into her crown.

"Is it dead?" she asks in a small voice and he cannot help but smile all over again.

"Nope. I dropped it behind the fence however, even asked it politely not to come back into the house anymore as to not to scare my precious wife. I think he got the message pretty clearly," he cannot help but add with a grin, feeling her face sinking even deeper into his shoulder, her refusal to meet his gaze out of sheer embarrassment obvious.

And Michael cannot help but think that he's never felt more smitten with her.

xxx


	46. Cheater

**Name**: Cheater

**Characters/Pairing**: Michael/Sara/Lincoln, Michael Jr.

**Genre:** non-epilogue compliant, het, slash, angst, darkfic, kink

**Rating**: R (guess for the theme itself, yet absolutely nothing graphic. Oh, and some language too)

**Word count**: approx. 2000 words

**Warnings**: slash, incest, **definitely not what I usually write!**

**Summary**: _The day Sara found out, Michael's world shattered to pieces._

**A/N**: A while ago, I received a fic prompt from **clair_de_lune**, who asked for Michael/Lincoln/Sara or Michael/Lincoln, dark, but knowing I didn't write slash then changed the pairing to Michael/Sara, very mindful of my feelings. Well dear Clair, despite everything, I've never shied away from a challenge and I asked for _any_ prompts really, not only those I found convenient or that which suited me. And since it was your birthday...:) here goes. I don't know if this is anywhere near of what you expected or wanted, but this is what came to my mind at last. Enjoy.:)

_**Cheater**_

The day Sara found out, Michael's world shattered to pieces. Walking in on the two of them, the shock of what she was seeing took her breath away and her knees buckled.

Then, as if awaking from a dream by a sharp slap, she turned on her spot, packed her bags, took their baby boy and left their house in a hurried rush without a word.

He tried to stop her, tried to explain, he even begged, but he knew she was right. Tears streaming down her face, Michael knew she had no words to express how deeply wound – and probably shocked and disgusted – she was. He couldn't blame her. There are not many cultures – if any – that look kindly upon incest.

He cheated on his wife, a woman he loved deeply, with his very own _brother_.

But it never occurred to Michael, it never felt that way, it never felt like he was cheating. He always considered his _unusual_ bond with Lincoln as a form of mutual familial affection the two of them merely took to another level. It certainly never felt like an 'affair', not in the traditional sense of the word. He was not gay and he certainly never felt anything for another man, in fact, Michael never felt anything similar for another woman either. Anybody but _her_.

What he shared with his brother may have been considered sick and unnatural by other people's books or society's standards, but his and Lincolns relationship was, indeed, never 'normal'. Was it really so bad, to love your brother, your own blood and flesh, to the extent where you didn't care what was conventional and socially acceptable anymore? Michael didn't think the way he felt for his brother was something he needed to be ashamed of.

And yet, he was hiding it from his own wife, from a woman who has become his own blood and flesh ever since her fell in love with her. He tried to convince himself he was doing it for her, to keep her safe and happy in her oblivion, to keep the rules and boundaries of their lives as clean and simple as possible. She is his _wife_ and he loves her deeply, the way only a man can love a woman, and he wound never, ever, exchange what he has with her for any other woman or man in the whole wide world.

It was only that the relationship with his brother was…different, unconventional. Special and intense, yet complicated and hard to explain even to himself at times.

Michael always believed that by not telling her, he was only protecting her, sparing her doubts and grief. Now he recognizes his own lie, knowing that he was simply being a selfish coward all along simply for wanting to have them _both_. What he always feared might happen after she discovered the truth became real.

She couldn't understand, she _wouldn't_ understand, and he didn't blame her. What she didn't understand though, was that he couldn't live without her the same way he couldn't live without Lincoln.

He knew it made him a greedy man, a selfish man, probably a sick man too, in most people's eyes. But he loved his wife at least as much as he loved his brother, and when she left, taking their son with her, his world collapsed.

He spent the next couple of weeks searching for her, desperate in his attempts to reach her in order to try redeeming himself, because he knew that without her, he was damned. But Sara was good at hiding, nearly as good as he was at finding people, and after a month of fruitless search, he finally accepted she didn't want to be found and returned home to a place that didn't feel like a home anymore.

Lincoln was there, but he was only one half of Michael's existence, the other essence of his life missing. They went through the motions, executed mundane everyday tasks, but the brothers didn't speak to each other anymore, words too painful and too inadequate in their situation.

He lost half of his family but if felt like earth has swallowed his soul whole. He spent hours in their son's nursery, cradling his toys to his chest, inhaling the smell of mother and child from his babies blankets.

He was inconsolable, even by Lincoln, and the older man was suddenly remembered of one of the worst times of his life, where he had a living corpse instead for a brother, the short yet eternal time when Michael was forced to believe Sara were gone.

As fucked-up as it may sound, Lincoln loved his sister in law and he loved his nephew. Seriously, how could he not? They made him happy, they made _Michael_ happy, as happy as he has never seen his brother in their entire life. So why did he ruin it all? Why did he irreparably hurt the woman he considered a sister, why did he tear his nephew from his father, especially when he knew exactly how heart-wrenching such an act could be? Why couldn't he make himself stop?

It's been always this way with Michael, ever since they were children. The bond was simply too strong, and now the two people his baby brother cared most in this world were paying the price for his greed.

He though about leaving, hoping that if there was ever a chance for his brother and Sara to ever mend again, it was only if he was out of the picture, for good. But he couldn't bring himself to leave Michael, not now and like this, not when his brother needed him more than ever before, behaving like a ghost haunting his own house.

So Lincoln stayed, merely to take care of things and ultimately of Michael. Although Lincoln couldn't force him to sleep as much as he couldn't force him to eat, he sure as hell could and _would_ be there to stop his brother if he ever dared to do something…_stupid_.

LJ called a couple of times, first shocked to hear the news of his uncles and aunts sudden split, demanding answers. He wouldn't get any, at least, not the true ones. He finished his last call by calling his father and uncle assholes, slamming the phone shut and hanging up on his father. Lincoln didn't blame him, he knew the strong bond his son has picked up with Sara, the protectiveness that could stem only from a shared trauma survived together, and he was grateful for their bond, despite that it sometimes made him feel like smashing things against the nearest wall.

A month went by, then two, and Lincoln saw that his brother was starting to loose it. He went from room to room, baby blankets, toys and Sara's clothes clutched to his chest or nose or simply in his hands, never talking, never sleeping, a grim glint of despair haunting his look.

Then, three months later, she suddenly stood at the door, child in arm, luggage at her feet. Without a word, she pressed her son into Lincoln's hands and walked by him into the house, her _home_, searching for her husband. As Lincoln expected, she found him in their bedroom, tangled in the same sheets that covered their bed the same day she left.

She closed the door decisively behind her and Lincoln didn't dare to protest nor intrude. Instead, he took little Michael to the sitting room, engaging him in one of his favorite plays. The boy had grown, the similarity to his father even more distinct now, and Lincoln couldn't help the guilty jolt of pain piercing through his chest, thinking that it was him who robbed his brother the past three months of his son's life. Three months Michael would never get back.

Michael and Sara were locked in their bedroom for hours and Lincoln never heard as much as a single sound come from behind the closed door. It was only late in the evening when Sara finally opened the door, her face pale and tired, the expression in her eyes haunted and tortured. The red puffy circles framing her eyes clear evidence of hours being spent crying. She didn't glance at Lincoln, merely uttered a silent '_thank you'_ and took the boy into her arms, ruffling his hair and giving him the first real smile in months, despite fresh tears suddenly moistening her eyes and blurring her vision.

"I am glad you are home…" mumbled Lincoln, despite the fact she was still not looking at him. He saw the back of her head slightly nod and it was more he could have asked for.

"You know…" he started tentatively, encouraged by her small gestures towards him, "he was devastated when you left. Broken, inconsolable…" he nearly whispered.

"So were _I_," she replied in a surprisingly strong voice, a hint of bitterness lacing her words. She quickly changed her tone for the sake of her son however, smiling at the child in her arms.

"Are you glad to be home, Michael?" she asked to small boy who couldn't speak yet, but who still gave an enthusiastic nod which made his mother let out a small laugh.

"So am I," she whispered, hiding her face into his soft curls.

It was much later when his brother emerged from the bedroom, his eyes even more puffy than his wife's and expression as beaten as Lincoln has ever seen on him, but there was a distinctive gleam of hope in his eyes and it made Lincoln hopeful too, for he was afraid that that particular spark would be for always lost to his brother.

It took some time before things started to get to normal again, little Michael's presence a huge help by often being the center of all the attention.

Neither of the trio of adults ever talked about it again, the topic being a taboo in their household. Lincoln never got to know what was said behind the closed doors of the bedroom that day, and to be honest, he never asked. He wasn't one to look the gift horse in the mouth. Sara was back and Michael was happy again, and that was all that mattered in the end.

Only two years later, once after Michael and Sara returned from a prolonged vacation in Hawaii in the middle of the winter, did Lincoln start to receive occasional strange nightly visits from his brother. Before long, things returned to their previous state. It always started as a simple brotherly talk, yet always ended the same way the whole mess started in the first place.

Lincoln knew his brother wouldn't willingly risk Sara leaving him ever again. Therefore, the only conclusion he could draw from this strange behavior patterns was, that what they were doing must somehow be blessed by Sara herself; if not directly agreed upon, then at least quietly tolerated.

Indeed, they never talked about what happened again, passing through life as any other suburban family. Yet the trio of adults made sure neither of their family other than themselves ever found out about their strange love triangle.

It was an act of utmost generosity, sacrifice and love that made this weird concept work, but it somehow _did_.

Many years later, standing upon Lincoln's grave, an old couple is holding hands. The woman lays down a bouquet of freshly picked flowers, the man an origami crane.

FIN

_Share your thoughts, I know you want to.:)_


	47. The baby basket

**Title:** The Baby Basket  
**Characters**: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi  
**Pairing**: Michael/Sara  
**Word Count**: approx. 6000 words  
**Rating**: R (heavy language and mentions of violence)  
**Genre**: Het, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Epilogue-Compliant, future fic

**Summary:** _"Don't worry, we won't hit the baby basket." It's been three months since their escape from Dade Penitentiary in Miami, but those words were still haunting her sleep…_

**AN:** _This story has been sitting on my drive for ages…actually, since august 2009 (!), and I am only now finally posting it. Well, suits me. Also, please note that it's been written with a lot of drama and fresh thoughts right after the shows finale and my dissatisfaction with the ending as well as all the loose ends and conversations I thought should have happened, so again, beware of Aww all that drama! (a.k.a potential cheesiness or shallowness)_

_**That said, enjoy. **_

**The Baby Basket**

"_Don't worry, we won't hit the baby basket."_

It's been three months since their escape from Dade Penitentiary in Miami, but those words were still haunting her sleep, leaving her sobbing and crying in Michael's arms, though always refusing to tell him the substance of her nightmare. It was not a mere memory she was dreaming and reliving over and over again. If it was a sheer memory, she would know they'd purposely _miss_, wouldn't hit and take away the most precious gift she ever received from her.

In these nightmares however, they never missed, hitting and kicking her stomach until she nearly died of the excruciating pain in her womb, her own blood drenching her slacks, the ground underneath her turning crimson red. And when they finally called the doctor – _damn, _she_ was a doctor _– it wasn't necessary anymore. She already knew it was too late for her child to be saved.

And as always it was the same as any other night, except maybe, that this dream actually felt more vivid than any other time she dreamt it before. She woke from her nightmare with a start, a painful cry leaving her lips. Moaning with woe and still under the influence of the heavy dream, not yet fully in the land of waking nor in dreamland anymore, she didn't notice Michael's body shoot upwards into a sitting position as well. Only when he tried to wrap his arms around her in a soothing manner did she realize she was not alone. It didn't do any help however. Still under the influence of her own imagination, she pushed him away violently, shouting to leave her alone while her hands grabbed handfuls of the bedding, lifting and throwing it away.

As if burned, Michael only watched helplessly. He knew this particular scene all too well, yet it still managed to pain him by his inability to help or soothe her in any way. The phase of comfort always came much later, only after she calmed down enough to fully comprehend her surroundings, once she reassured herself that what it was she was dreaming about wasn't real.

The covers fell in a pile on the ground next to the bed as Sara's eyes frantically searched in the darkness of the night for any proof her dream was real, her hands touching and probing her sleepwear and underpants for moisture, any feel or smell of blood on the sheets or her.

There was none.

Sobbing and still not reassured enough, she threw her legs quickly over the side of the bed, ignoring Michael completely in the process. And before he even had the time to turn on the bedside lamp, she's already disappeared into the bathroom.

It took five minutes until he heard her crying grow louder, moaning in despair and fright but also from relief that it was all just a dream, and this was always the signal for Michael to leave the sanctuary of their bed and join her, offering comfort which she had denied him only moments before.

It wasn't all that often she had this particular dream, this being only the fourth or fifth time since they sailed off, leaving Miami and everything connected to their previous lives behind. However, it was the most powerful and unsettling one Michael knew could posses her, and it scared him tremendously every time it returned.

The first time it happened, he tried to force her to talk to him about it, yet she refused.

The second time in happened, he treaded more carefully, offering her a quiet ear to listen, trying to convince her she needed to confide in him for her own good. But she didn't.

The third time, he told her he loved her, and that she could trust him with anything, begging her to confide in him with this nightmare, like she already had with all the others. Even then, she refused, begging him to stop asking, begging him not to be angry. He never was.

But the ominous uneasiness with which he closed his eyes every single night only seemed to deepen ever since. There was also this one more dream she was having, and somehow, to Michael it seemed like they were connected. But he was forbidden to learn the truth about that one as well.

So ever since the last time, Michael stopped asking, which only left him in nothing but hoping that one day, she would find the courage to confide in him at last. What he feared most was he wouldn't be able to help her once she did.

Opening the door slowly and soundlessly, he entered the space carefully, his eyes finding Sara immediately in her usual spot. Huddled on the floor near the toilet, she had her knees drawn to her chest, her arms hugging herself tightly, her head resting on top of them as the sobs kept ragging through her body.

The floor was cool and Michael didn't like the thought of her sitting there like that, but he has long ago learned not to press subjects as mundane as this at a time like this. Crawling down next to her, he silently brought his arms around her, drawing her shaking frame into him, hoping she could feel the warmness of his touch through her pitiful state of mind.

She once told him he couldn't feel responsible for every tiny thing that ever happened to the people who mattered to him, but especially in times like this and especially with _her_, a huge torrent of guilty thoughts couldn't be stopped.

She killed his mother to save his life and had to pay for it the highest price, serving time in a female version of Fox River. The very thought still sent shivers down his spine whenever it crossed his mind. Of course they've talked about it, about the attempted poisoning, about Gretchen and Daddy and the new scar disfiguring the once perfect and most delicate skin of her shoulder blade. She shared her thoughts and experience with him, but always only to some degree, always leaving Michael with the thought that there was a deeper level she refused to let him in on, whether for his or hers own sake he didn't know.

He would lie if he said it didn't hurt him, which nearly always immediately caused him to feel selfish. He knew would also lie if he said he didn't understand. There were parts of his own suffering he hasn't shared with her either, about Fox River, about Sona. It was as if they've talked about everything without disclosing anything. And he simply couldn't understand why.

They loved each other, they enjoyed each other's company and they've looked into the future together, happy and excited about the prospect of becoming parents soon. They exchanged favorite baby names and childhood stories and fears and misgivings.

And they were truly happy. Except when they weren't, when once in a while, mostly during their most vulnerable state of mind while dreaming, the ghosts of the past wouldn't leave them alone. A memory, a bad foreboding, an altered experience, they all triggered a reaction that was far off from any normal anxieties of a young couple expecting.

They always made a point to return to sleep only when _both_ of them were feeling better and reassured by the other. So together, they could wake up with the promise of a new day being once again bright and unbothered. And most of the time, it truly worked.

It definitely wasn't all bad times, the three month of calm and quiet time spent with Michael on board of their ship brought its fruit for Sara. She was more relaxed, smiled a lot, made jokes about Michael's pregnancy obsession and read baby books along with him. She was looking into the future with more optimistic eyes each and every new day, and this had the very same effect on Michael as well. But where some of their nightmares lessened, some seemed to grip them tighter. And it seemed like whenever they've felt like they had really finally crossed the invisible line between darkness and twilight, the night claimed them back again.

Today, Michael decided to put a stop to this. He would not have his life and the lives of his wife and unborn child being destroyed by an invisible hand of imagination. Fear weighed nothing, it was only air, Lincoln has taught him that much a long time ago. And Michael decided he would air out the aura of premonition tonight once and for all.

Bringing his lips to her ear, he said in a resolute, fierce whisper.

"I know it's the same dream. And I know it has something to do with the baby. Whatever it is, however, it's not real. You and the baby are far away from Dade, safe, with me. And you know I will do anything to keep the two of you safe. So will Lincoln, or Sucre, or Alex, if they have to. No one will come within reach of you unless I let them, and God knows I am a mistrustful and possessive guy. And I won't let anyone - _anyone _- Sara, come between us again. It's been settled, the company business, our sentences, even my mother's death as self defense by Kellerman. You know that, deep down, you know there is nothing they can throw our way anymore, _nothing_. We are far away from all that crap, we're free and we are starting a family of our own. They can stay where they are and eat each other alive for all I care, because by then, we'll be unreachably far away and living a beautiful life of our own. We left everything behind, _everything_. The nightmares…" his voice broke a little, "they're just nasty but harmless reflections of what we left behind. And if we want, we don't have to ever look back. Now come to bed, and tell me, _please_, tell me about these horrible dreams that won't let you have your sleep and rest."

By the time he finished the heated rush of warm breath into her ear, she stopped shivering. And to his surprise, she stopped crying as well. Her hands moved slowly, almost uneasily, around his neck. Pressing her lips to his neck, she whispered back in a hoarse tone, her face hiding deep in the crook of his neck.

"Carry me back?" she asked in an innocent, slightly embarrassed tone.

In spite the graveness of the situation, he had to smile to himself. Pulling her from the ground easily, he stumbled to his slightly frozen feet before carrying his double pack of joy to the bed.

"Okay, but only this one time," he told her jokingly, hoping she would catch on the tone that always seemed to help to break the ice in situations like these.

She did. He felt the ghost of her lips curl into a tiny smile against his neck, the warm air of her breath hitting his skin, gliding over him like a warm summer breeze and leaving goose bumps in its wake.

"I remember you promising me you would spoil me until the end of our days," Sara quipped back, a tint of playfulness coating her voice, and Michael's heart leapt at the change of mood. It came twice as quickly as all those other times they've experienced this situation, and it left his heart feeling more hopeful for a nightmare-less future that ever before.

"You cannot believe everything I tell you Sara, you know that, I am an ex-con," he shot back feigning disbelief despite being deeply amused. His grin only grew when he felt her slap his back audibly with her palm.

"I guess I will have to ask Lincoln for the favor, then," she replied with a dramatic sigh just as Michael lowered her on the bed.

"You may try that," he said with a smug grin, "but I assure you, it's a settled rule for Lincoln to always carry a lady to bed only over his shoulder and no other way." Watching her pull a face, he joined her on the bed, curling on his side to watch her. She noticed the shift in him as his face grew more serious again.

"Tell me." He simply said, his hand coming to rest on her slightly swollen stomach. He saw her hesitate, all the previous amusement gone.

"Please Sara, I _beg_ you, tell me." She was only looking at him non-commitaly, all the light and spark he loved so much disappearing from her eyes. He tried harder, deep down knowing he was being unfair by pushing her this way. "It's killing me not to know what's plaguing your dreams over and over again…" he said urgently while watching her close her eyes as his hand kept caressing her abdomen lovingly, "…and those of our child as well."

He could see he hit a nerve, something shifting in Sara's silent chocolate pools, yet still, she kept mum, seeming to close off even tighter. He gave a defeated sigh but didn't withdraw from her.

"Okay," he uttered at last, a deep and heavy rush of disappointment leaving his lungs. "You don't have to. I'm sorry I tried to force you." He dropped the subject, returning his attention back to her and her growing belly. Slowly he moved on the bed, coming to a stop on the same level as her middle and resting his face against her stomach. He locked his eyes with Sara's for a moment before closing them again, concentrating his thoughts on what was lying underneath those layers of skin and human tissue.

A new life they've created amongst the mayhem of tears and blood and death; something wonderful and unique that was going to become just the perfect mixture of the both of them, Michael was sure of that. He still couldn't quite believe it. There's been so little time, so little space, and yet this tiny life made a decision on its own, demanding to be born. He let himself go, pushing his always present rational thoughts to the recesses of his conscious mind, something he could only do, he discovered not long ago, only when he was around Sara.

"Hey there, little buddy…or my sweet little baby girl," he said, moving his head to the side to be able to kiss the skin of Sara's belly, the only barrier keeping him separated from the dream to be born in less than twenty weeks.

"Mommy was having bad dreams again, but I think I managed to calm her down a bit, so you and her can get some sleep again." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sara smile. He knew she found it silly when he talked to her stomach like this, especially so early in her pregnancy, but he didn't care, because he knew it made her laugh at his foolishness and so it was always worth it. Plus, he suspected she might enjoy it way more than she would ever admit, as did he.

He decided to push the foolishness even further.

"So keep being a good baby, make yourself comfortable, and sleep tight. I can assure that you are in the best hands, I mean _tummy_, available. I would trade places with you immediately if I had the chance, trust me," he said in a funny voice and got his wished reaction. Sara let out a throaty laugh, giving the top of his head a soft smack.

"Michael, stop it! You are making a complete ass of yourself!"

"And you love me for it, don't you?" he replied with a smug grin. Her hands came to rest on the sides of his face, playing with his ears lovingly.

"I love you for a lot of things." She said in a deep voice, her tone very soft and eyes gentle as they connected with his over her growing bump. He only grinned, deciding to continue his antics for a little longer.

"Still, I really think this baby won the first prize." He said, putting on his best smartarse face, "They have a nice, comfy apartment all to themselves, three hot meals a day – or more when you have a cravings or get a sweet-tooth - they get to run around naked and sleep all day if they wish, they've got air conditioning, heating _and_ warm water, and a whole pool for themselves." He continued, his fingers little circling over the curve of her belly, " Plus, they get stroked and talked to by you all day long that even _I_ don't get so much attention," at this point, Sara was chuckling lightly, "and the cherry on top - their daddy tells them how much he loves them every single day." He brought his lips to hover less than an inch over her stomach, whispering, "_I love you, little monkey,_" before he pressed a soft kiss right into the middle, "What more is there to wish for?" He directed his gaze back at Sara, who said nothing but looked at him lovingly, a small smile quickly spreading through her face.

"A nice, warm, comfy basket you women got there, I've gotta tell you," concluded Michael admiringly, a soft smile playing on his lips.

To his horror, Sara's face froze in shock at his last words, all color visibly draining from her face, even in the shadow of the night. She gave a deep gasp, quickly and unexpectedly firmly pushing him away and off of her as she brought her hands to hug herself as if pain, her body contorting and curling into a tight ball, turning her back to face him.

Michael's shock at the sudden change of mood was like a slap in the face. He had no idea what he said that could have upset her this much, but his words must have been of great importance to her.

Copying the form of her body and spooning her from behind, he drew her close with one of his hands, while the other came to stroke her hair, pulling it away from her neck and face.

"What is it, Sara? Why did my words upset you this much?"

Finally, after a couple of agonizingly long moments, he felt her stir a little. She wasn't crying, but she looked as if she was in pain, the cramped and unnatural position of her body telling Michael she wasn't alright. Raw panic gripped him.

"Are you feeling alright? Are you sick?" he asked urgently, fear rising in his voice. "Please, just talk to me," he demanded.

"No, I am not sick…" she finally said through taking gulps of air, her answer coming out choked and unnatural. "I am not sick…physically."

"Sara, this is_ not_ okay anymore, it is actually _hurting_ you. So whatever bothers you, you need to tell me, and you better tell me now," he said visibly upset, the demand in his voice bordering on a direct command and Sara knew her time to hide the truth was up. This was a one time opportunity to tell him what's been bothering her in the past few months, but voicing it seemed a far more difficult task than she though. She took a couple a moments to simply breathe, counting to ten and back several times before she found the strength to talk again.

"It's about Dade … something that … _happened_ there." She could feel him freeze, then his hand came to grip her own nearly painfully.

"I am here," Michael quietly encouraged her, his voice staying firm yet calm.

"When I came to Dade…the very first day…" she started at last, her voice uneasy. "There was this guard. She seemed nice, seemed to care. She knew I was pregnant and offered me another room I could stay in until the trial ended." Sara let out a bitter bark of laughter that left Michael's heart feel like being covered in a crust of ice. "I should have known better, that there were no nice people without hidden agendas. But the prospect of being able to escape the gen-pop, with _my_ name and reputation left me blind to any reasoning. I was so scared Michael…" He could hear the tremble in her voice, her struggle to continue. He hugged her even closer, unable to resist the urge to press a few small, lasting kisses against the back of her neck while he waited for her to continue. "I wasn't scared for myself, I…I truly wasn't. After Kellerman and Gretchen and T-Bag, I knew I could survive almost anything." Michael's fingers started to tingle, the blood leaving them at her words, rage mixing with fear and sheer panic of loosing her again gripping at his heart at the memories her words triggered.

"But my situation changed considerably. I knew I was pregnant and I swear to God, I would never believe how that tiny detail can change a person's entire thinking, but it does. I was beyond myself with fright that something might happen to the baby…and on top of that, I kept thinking…what _you_ would say to me if I let that happen…" she couldn't continue, the lump in her throat choking her. She couldn't continue, her frame starting to tremble while she silently gagged at her memories and Michael was stricken with his complete inability to help her in any way, his worst fears coming true. The truth was here and he suddenly had no words to comfort her with. Breathing felt like the most difficult task at the moment, Michael thinking he might suffocate under the pressure of her words.

"So I…went with her, not giving…giving a fucking second thought that it might be a trap…" She only barely started talking again and yet she had to stop, her lungs on fire and out of oxygen. She used all her willpower to force herself to breathe – _in and out –_ that she didn't even registered the growing wetness at the back of her neck.

He felt so useless, so powerless. He knew about her wounds, knew they came mostly by the beatings from the guards, but having her explain it to him through her own eyes and in such detail, it was more than a little overwhelming to him, his own mind speeding with images of most horrendous nature. Somehow, even through this, he managed to close all remaining space between them, literally gluing and melting into her skin. His hand, once again, came to rest upon her stomach, possessively, protectively. To his surprise, she grasped it, covering it with hers, and intertwining their fingers, she clutched to him and her stomach with a fierce grip of a drowning woman.

"There was about six of them…" she continued after several long moments at last, her voice a bear echo of its usual strength. "The guards…they said they knew my name, said I was responsible for their colleagues' misfortune," she stopped for a moment, breathing through the wild thumps of her heart. "The last thing I remember was them saying they would try not to hit '_the baby basket_'…" Trailing off, she buried her face into her pillow, the horror of what might have happened that day finally spilling through and she had to actually bite down onto the pillow as not to cry out in woe.

The chill running through Michael's bones at her previous words was nothing to the horrification when he finally understood. Remembering his previous words with an accuracy only his LLI could provide, his joyous jesting about her pregnancy now seemed like a sick joke and he wanted nothing more than to take the words back. That or run his useless head against the nearest wall.

Of course, he could do neither. And he also knew he couldn't have known in the first place. But that didn't take away the feeling of enormous responsibility – for everything that ever happened to her since he entered her life. The only silver lining to this horrible situation – if there really was any – was that this last drop seemed to push Sara to talk to him at last.

His fingers felt cold and numb as he tried to glide them over her hair and neck, the movements oddly feeling unnatural and strange. He felt like a fraud, trying to take away pain he himself had inflicted.

He suspected that what's been plaguing her dreams must be heavy yet he was caught completely unprepared for a confession like this. The feeling of being a failure to her only seemed to deepen. In a sick, twisted way, Sara's been forced to accept being beaten down in exchange for their baby's safety. He didn't know how he ever could make this right. 

And it seemed this was not the end of the story. After a couple moments of lungful breaths, Sara continued with the rest of her tale which was nearly as bad as what actually happened to her in Dade and how her dreams weren't haunted by the actual happenings but more by the twisted dream exploiting her horrid memories.

These were nightmares of the worst kind, in which she was always left lying on the cold ground of Dade penitentiary, bleeding out from a miscarriage, helpless, exposed and sneered at by the attacker guards. Of the long time they always seemed to take in calling for help, of how she literally felt her child dying inside of her, over and over again, and how the excruciating pain was nearly nothing compared to the grief she felt in her heart. Then came the doctor. Bending over her helpless bloody form he coldly and emotionlessly delivered the diagnose, the clinical way in which he said how sorry he was to tell her she 'miscarried' sickening her even further as she was being lifted out from her own pool of blood.

In the end, Sara spilled out everything. She explained how each time she woke from the dream, she would first search the sheets for blood, obsessive-compulsive in her need to check - every single time - if her nightmare wasn't real; if not for anything else than for the stress and fright and grief she was forced to go through each time.

The entire time, Michael didn't do or say anything, unable to act any differently but to listen. For once, he was overcome by emotions so raw, so undefinable and strong that he wasn't able to handle them. He was slightly trembling from head to toe without even noticing it, the picture of a helpless, hurting and bleeding Sara appearing in his mind's eye over and over again.

He would lie if he said his mind wasn't attacked by this particular scenario back when he was working on his plans to free her, yet he wouldn't allow his worries to formulate into actual images back then, he couldn't afford it. But here and now, lying in the darkness with a vulnerable and terrified Sara, the prospect of how close he came to losing her, losing them both, felt never more real.

For a second, he didn't know what to do with himself, how to move his limbs that felt cold and numb. The hand that previously rested over her stomach withdrew slightly in the course of the past few minutes, trembling over the flesh of his own thigh. It suddenly felt wrong to touch her, as if the horrible images running through his head could harm her in some way.

They lay there in silence for seconds, then minutes. Neither said anything, Sara gazing into space, Michael still petrified with his visions. Only too late did he realize he hadn't as much as said he was sorry, tried to comfort her or even _touch_ her, when she was apparently in so much need of emotional support.

Shaking from his catatonic state, he tried to focus on his wife instead. She was laying still, silent tears occasionally sliding down her cheeks to disappear in the softness of her cushion.

With his fingers truly cold now, he brought his hand to the top of her head, caressing her soft crown and then resting his fingers against her burning forehead. Silently hushing into her ear in a soft whisper, his fingers started to move and caress the side of her head, neck and face before his mouth replaced the spots the fingers have just left.

"I know there isn't anything I can say that can take these memories away, nor anything that can stop the dreams from coming. But no matter what those women did to you, you were strong enough to survive it. All of it. You protected our baby better than any person ever could, and I couldn't be more grateful and more proud of you. What you did back then … It's more than I could ever have asked or expected of you. And the only thing I can think about telling you now is so painfully inadequate but…._thank you_, Sara."

Another silent tear ran down her cheek. Michael brought his lips closer to her ear for the sheer fear his voice would be so quiet she wouldn't hear him.

"And I have a confession to make. I never told you this, but when Beau told me you were poisoned and escaped death only inches away, I nearly lost it right there. I didn't believe a word anybody ever said anymore, and I needed to know for sure. I still wasn't allowed to see you at that time and that nearly killed me, the insecurity, the fear, my inability to see for myself what I'd been told, that you were _alright_," he nearly gagged at the last word, "Not being able to do anything else about the situation but knowing where the order must have come from, I went straight for the male wing to visit Kranz."

At his words, Sara turned in his arms abruptly, looking at him with huge confused eyes still glassed over by the remnants of her tears. He merely stared back, the blue of his eyes a blank sheet painted with sorrow.

"I asked him to leave you alone, I'd do anything if only he left you and our baby alone." At this moment, he averted his eyes in shame. "I didn't realize he didn't know about…about you being pregnant. And I literally gave him the biggest weapon against me right into his waiting hands."

The pressure of the guilt was so unbearable now that he momentarily wasn't able to continue. He gazed into the darkness somewhere behind her, losing himself in the blackness of the wall, his eyes shining dark in the dim light. Only when he felt a pair of the gentlest hands he'd ever known cupping his face, did he dare to look down and face her, seeking forgiveness and redemption he knew he didn't deserve.

For the moment being, instead of voicing her thoughts, she talked to him through her eyes. The compassion and affection she felt for him was undeniable and crushing, so much he didn't even notice her face closing in on him. Only once her lips touched his in a soft, gentle caress did he appear to have woken from the dark fog clouding his mind. After a series of small loving kisses, Sara withdrew her face an inch, her eyes steadily gazing into his inquiringly, shining with a soft glow of understanding.

"Is that why you were so insistent on me having a complete and thorough medical check-up the minute we anchored in the first oversees town, no matter what the cost?"

His silence confirmed her suspicions, his eyes again shying away from hers. Her grip on his face merely tightened.

"Is that why you…" she stopped for a second, unsure about her next words before deciding to continue, "…why you're so reluctant to touch me more intimately ever since we left the States?" He kept silent as the realization finally dawned upon her.

"You've been scared you would hurt me or the baby," she uttered quietly in a statement, her lashes wincing as the realization hit her full force. He didn't look at her but his miserable expression and escaping eyes were all the evidence she needed.

"Oh Michael," she whispered in a pained voice, "Why didn't you tell me?"

It took him a couple of moments to look at her. "You had so much on your plate already, I wouldn't want to burden you with my fears as well," he said quietly, his eyes shimmering in the dark.

She gazed into his eyes for a couple more moments before she sighed, moving down to press hard against his side, resting her face in the crook of his neck. Her abrupt closeness seemed to have broken the barriers. His hands encircled her waist, one coming up to cradle her head, the other to rest against her belly again. She made sure to keep it there by covering it with her own.

"Are you afraid of losing the baby now?" Michael asked all of a sudden into the darkness, his voice ripping the silence like a slash of a whip. Sara froze for a moment then seemed to relax against him once again.

"No. At least not when I am fully awake," she said, squeezing his hand resting over the curve of her stomach. "Not when I am with you," she added. "Not ever since I…"

"Ever since you what?" asked Michael quietly, his nose coming to nuzzle her hair. The silence stretched for a couple of seconds before Sara's voice floated through the darkness.

"Ever since I…" she trailed off again, "Michael, a few days ago, I think…I think I felt the baby move for the first time." She could feel Michael body freeze. "And I keep feeling it ever since," she continued raising her head in order to look at him, her face shining with uneasiness as well as excited joy and wary hope. "I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure if I simply imaged it. But it keeps happening and I feel it more strongly and distinctly every single time."

Michael's features were simply stunned, his eyes widening into the size of two saucers. Then, his face stretched into a wide, emotional smile and he let out a deep exhalation that finished in a hearty laugh.

"Really?"

Sara nodded, producing a huge smile of her own. Michael's hands started to roam her body in excitement, his suddenly all too eager fingers pushing up the thin material of her camisole and coming to rest against the slightly stretched skin of her bare stomach. His eyes never leaving her face, he asked: "Where?"

She gently took his hand, navigating his fingers to rest at the very bottom of the stretched skin, just over her hipbone.

"Here," she said barely over a whisper. Then, she moved his hand again, pressing his fingers to a different spot, "and here."

"How does it feel?" He asked excitedly. She gave a small smile, giving him a thoughtful look while contemplating his question.

"It's a bit like a squirm, a very light flutter. It's so subtle that sometimes, I had to think twice to know for sure if I didn't just imagine it. But it gets stronger now," she finished, her eyes glowing in the darkness, her voice strangely excited.

Instead of replying Michael kissed her, long and hard, before slowing down his attack, the kisses growing gentler, though deeper and with more love then Sara has ever felt. Withdrawing after a while, he gave a sudden deep discontented sigh that surprised Sara.

"It will take weeks, if not months, until I will be able to feel it too, right?" he said in an impatient and disappointed voice that reminded Sara of a pouty child. She nodded slightly, giving Michael a full smile, amused yet compassionate.

"I am afraid so," she affirmed, her hand coming to cradle his scull lovingly. He gave a small angry grunt that caused a small laugh escape Sara's lips.

"Well…I will have to take your word for it then," he said, a small smile stealing over his handsome face. With a flutter in her chest, Sara realized he looked ten years younger when he smiled. She pressed her head against his chest, closing her eyes while listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

They didn't speak much that night anymore, both too exhausted and slowly being lulled back into sleep by the gentle rocking of the boat again, yet their night wasn't disturbed by any more of the nightmares. In the course of the next months, Sara's dreams returned for a couple of times again, yet somehow, whether it be the shared knowledge with Michael, or the ever growing counter-evidence of her progressing pregnancy, the dream gradually lost its terrifying intensity.

It even happened – it was a short time before she gave birth - that Sara was rescued from her dream by the kicking of her child, the movements so strong the sudden pain woke her up just before the tricky guard had the chance to lure her towards the lion's den.

But it was only the day she saw her son's perfect face for the very first time that Sara knew she would never experience her nightmare again. Looking into her husband's proud and glowing face, his eyes were mirroring the same thought.

She succeeded, she conquered.

Against all odds, she fought and survived, giving life to a new creature, a tiny perfect being, a baby boy she created and shared with a man she loved deeply.

"Michael," she firmly said with brightly shining eyes, her smile matching only that of her husband, her statement a reply to her husband's previous question.

"I want to name him _Michael_."

End

_Thoughts? Share. Now. I know you want to. :-)_


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